The Night of the Actor
by California gal
Summary: My version of how James and Artemus came to be working in the Secret Service together. In 5 chapters, complete.
1. Chapter 1

**THE NIGHT OF THE ACTOR**

The firmest friendships have been formed in mutual adversity; as iron is most strongly united by the fiercest flame.  
>—Charles Caleb Colton (1780-1832), English sportsman and writer<p>

**Chapter One**

_May 1866_

He would have whistled as he sat down at the dressing table, except for the long-held superstition regarding whistling in a theater. _No real need to worry about bad luck for the production now, the current run has ended._ Still, he did not want to upset any of his fellow troupe members who might overhear, quite aware that they would blame any misfortune, minor or major, even a year or more from now, on his gaffe. Needing an outlet for his exhilaration, he started to sing the words of an exuberant tune he had heard, and sung, so many times during the late war, _The Battle Cry of Freedom._

Yes, we'll rally round the flag, boys,

We'll rally once again,

Shouting the battle cry of Freedom,

We will rally from the hillside,

We'll gather from the plain,

Shouting the battle cry of Freedom.

_Freedom! Yes, I have freedom for a few weeks. But what a wonderful way to end the current run and begin the hiatus! That applause… the cheers… the calls for bows… something I'll never forget! I was the star! The star! _

The Union forever, Hurrah! boys, hurrah!

Down with the traitors,

Up with the stars;

While we rally round the flag, boys,

Rally once again,

Shouting the battle cry of Freedom.

He leaned toward the mirror while carefully removing all the extraneous hair the role had called for, singing the chorus jubilantly. Only as he reached the last couple of lines did it occur to him that he was not singing alone. Peering into the mirror, past his own reflection, he could see that someone was standing in the now open doorway to his dressing room.

Artemus Gordon twisted to look back toward that door, a door he had closed upon entry, reveling in the glorious feeling of having his own dressing room, not having to share any part of it—closet, mirror, chairs—any of it, with a fellow actor. _That's what happens when you become a star_, he had reflected.

A young man in evening attire was there now, leaning jauntily against one side, grinning widely. "Hi, Artie."

Artemus leapt up with such force he knocked the chair over, but he paid it no mind, taking the two long strides necessary to reach the door, where he first grabbed his visitor's arms, and then pulled him into a warm hug, deciding in this instance to disregard Jim West's usual reticence toward emotional demonstrations.

"Jim! My God, Jim! How good to see you!" Now Artie stepped back, holding his visitor at arms' length. "You look great! What are you doing in Chicago? How long can you stay? Did you see my performance? What did you think?"

Jim West chuckled, moving into the room and pushing the door shut behind him, pretty much forcing Artemus to release him. He did not mind the embrace all that much but was glad Artie was the one to initiate it. "You look pretty good yourself, Captain Gordon. Though you've put on weight." He punched the padding under the costume lightly. "I'm here on business. I have to leave in a couple of days. I saw your performance. Great job."

"A couple of days? So soon? We have so much to get caught up on. It's been almost 9 months, hasn't it? What the devil have you been up to? I never heard a word from you or about you." Artie stepped back to the dressing table, opened a lower drawer to withdraw a bottle and two glasses. He filled both as he talked and handed one to Jim. "Are you still in the army?" The civilian clothes seemed to belie that, yet there was an air about the younger man. _Something's up!_

"No, not the army." Jim lifted his glass. "To the good old days!"

Artie laughed out loud as he saluted. _The good old days?_ When they had put their lives on the line almost daily, either on the battlefield or as spies and couriers for General Grant? "Oh, yes. It's a miracle we're both here to drink this toast. Sit down, Jim." He indicated a stool that was pushed against the wall while he picked up the toppled chair and sat down near the dressing table. "Somehow I have an idea this is not entirely a social call."

"First let me say, I did enjoy your performance as Falstaff. I've never seen it done better."

Artie lifted his glass again. "Thank you. It's been great. I started out in this troupe as just a bit player, and suddenly—I'm the leading light!"

"I always knew you had it in you." Jim grinned. "Although this is the first of your performances I've been able to catch, I've read about you. You wowed them in New York."

"Didn't I? It's been amazing. I love it." He saw a shadow flit through his friend's green eyes. "So… what have you been up to since mustering out?"

Jim looked down at his glass for a moment then lifted his gaze. "I'm a member of the United States Secret Service."

"The … what? I didn't know such a service existed. I guess that's why they call it secret, huh? What is it? Some kind of society like the Masons?"

"It's a division of the Treasury Department, created in July of 'sixty-five. Ironically, President Lincoln authorized its formation the afternoon of the day he was assassinated. I always wonder… but in any case, our primary duty is to chase down counterfeiters, and anyone who might be thinking of harming the government of the United States. I don't know if you remember William Wood, the keeper of the Capital Prison…"

"Yes, of course. Earlier, he was one of our most daring spies. I met him once when we were in Washington City."

"He's the head of the division. I know you remember Colonel James Richmond. He's currently an assistant director, but rumor is that he'll be high on the list when Wood decides to pack it in."

"Well, congratulations on the employment. I am certain you are one of their best men. Now tell me why you are in Chicago and why you came to see me."

"Artie, can't I visit an old friend?"

"Of course. But I know you too well, James my boy. There's something more to it."

Again Jim dropped his gaze to his drink for a long moment before looking at his wartime comrade again. "Do you remember Tim Galvin?"

"Absolutely. Finest voice in the Union Army. Those nights when he sang as we gathered around the campfire… what happened?" Jim's usually stoic face was having difficulty remaining so.

"He was murdered a few weeks ago. He was an agent in the department, investigating the possibility of a counterfeiting scheme in Wyoming." Jim's voice was soft, strained.

"Oh, no. Jim, he was such a fine man… You've been assigned to the case?"

"Yes."

Artemus frowned. "Wyoming Territory seems like an odd place for a counterfeiting ring. It's all… wilderness."

"Not entirely. Quite a bit of land has been opened up to homesteaders; there are ranches and towns. But the thinking is that it's being done there because of its remoteness. They have printed up their bogus bills and spent a few of them in cities like Kansas City and San Francisco. Certain information led the department to believe they were originating in Wyoming and Tim was sent to sniff around, posing as a wandering veteran looking for a place to settle. Someone… discovered his identity. He was shot in the back and his body thrown into the Laramie River near Carvers Landing."

"My god, Jim. That's awful. Tell me… did he marry that girl he often spoke of? What was her name? Mary Rose?"

Jim shook his head somberly. "She died of a fever shortly after he got home to Connecticut. I think that was partly why he came back to Washington, looking for something different to do. We were together when General Grant summoned me to the Willard, and I took Tim with me. We joined the Secret Service at the same time."

"So… now you're going after Tim's killers?"

Jim nodded. "His killers, who are probably the counterfeiters. The last communication received from Tim indicated he had a strong clue. He asked for some help. But before I got there… he was dead."

"So you've been to Wyoming?"

"Yes. I'm known there. That's why I need your assistance."

"My… what?"

"Artie, we would like you to resurrect Justin Lee Galbraith—or someone like him." [See _The Night of the Beginning_.]

Artemus sighed. "Jim, you need to explain more clearly."

"The man suspected of being the mastermind of the counterfeiters is a rancher named Marston Manwaring. He owns quite a bit of property in an area between Cheyenne and Fort Laramie, near Carvers Landing. He hails originally from Georgia, and although he was living in Wyoming Territory during the war, he openly supported the South. His younger brother had been living with him but went back east, enlisted in a Georgia infantry, and was killed at Chickamauga. That and the fact that the South lost seem to have embittered Manwaring, although he has eased back on his anti-Union rhetoric, perhaps to lessen the attention it might draw."

"And you believe he's producing counterfeit money… to injure the Union?"

"There's a lot of counterfeit cash out there, Artie. With so many different banks issuing their own scrip… it's difficult to track down. But these are government bills he's reproducing. And they are good ones, very difficult to identify. The phony cash has appeared in the Midwest, and I found some here in Chicago. Also, we heard about a few bills on the West Coast. Not many. It's as though they are testing the waters. Fortunately, some _were_ identified as bogus and the government was notified."

"Well, I hope they had enough taste to spend some of it here at the theater." Artie's tone was sardonic.

Jim chuckled. "I have no doubt some made it to the box office here." He sobered. "Here's what we've worked up…"

"We?"

"Yes. Colonel Richmond and me. He'll be in the background, staying on the train to coordinate…"

"What train? James, you have got to be more explicit!"

Now Jim laughed. "There's a train the department uses. Donated by a wealthy—and anonymous—benefactor of the department. The agents use it for cover from time to time. Because we don't want to set up out in the open, we'll have the train on a siding a distance away but it will provide a place to meet as well as quick and direct transportation."

"A train. You meet in boxcars?" Artemus was having difficulty taking this all in.

"Not exactly," Jim said dryly. "Now you wanted an explanation, so shut up and listen. Manwaring was very close to his younger brother, practically raised him. He apparently did not want the kid to go east to enlist but after all his expostulating about the southern cause, he could hardly stop him."

"And you want me to pose as someone who knew this young man."

"Exactly. We've been able to dig up details on his regiment and company. You'd be a southern gentleman, one of Nelson Manwaring's commanding officers, also bitter about the defeat of the Confederacy."

"I see. Is there a beautiful widow at this ranch?"

Jim blinked, confused for a moment, then grinned. "No, I'm afraid not. Neither brother ever married. Fewer complications."

"How dangerous is the situation?"

"Very. But I will be there as an investigator. I hope to draw Manwaring's attention."

"Jim, he already killed one agent."

"I know."

Artemus fell silent as he turned back to the mirror and started removing the remainder of his makeup. He did not speak as he then changed out of his costume and into regular clothes. Jim was silent as well, watching, wondering. He could see the soberness on his former comrade's face as he went through the motions of removing his stage wear.

_And no wonder! He's been away from it for over a year. He's got a new and different life. I should have not even considered bringing him back into this. But we worked so well together…_

All through the war, after they had successfully completed an assignment together just before the battle of Shiloh, West and Gordon had participated in numerous tasks for General Grant and other officers in both the western and eastern theaters. They made forays into enemy territory for information, to rescue captured Union soldiers, to sabotage trains and armories… always successful, though not without great peril. Each had been captured twice, and the other had to engineer a rescue. Jim had been wounded a couple of times, Artemus once. But they had survived, and after Appomattox—in the autumn after Lincoln's death actually—they had mustered out with their regiments and gone their separate ways.

Jim got to his feet. "Artie, I'm sorry. I have no right to ask this of you. I know that your run at this theater has ended, and you probably have plans to visit family or something far more pleasant than risking your life…"

Artie swung around, surprise on his face. "No, no. Not at all, Jim. I was actually thinking that it would be fun."

"Fun!"

Artie grinned. "I seem to recall you saying that to me a time or two."

Jim shook his head, bemused. "Maybe. But…"

"I was also thinking about the fact that Tim was killed and that they know you there as a government man. You might as well wear a target on your back."

"It's my job, Artie. It's what I'm paid to do."

"You mean you're not offering to pay me?"

"Well, yes. Colonel Richmond has arranged…"

"When do we leave?"

W*W*W*W*W

In friendship your heart is like a bell struck every time your friend is in trouble.  
>—Henry Ward Beecher (1813-1887), American clergyman, religious writer and reformer<p>

The train was parked at the Chicago rail yards. The following morning, Artemus took a hack and met Jim at the outskirts. He was interested and vaguely amused to note that Jim West's vanity regarding the cut of his uniform extended into civilian life. His wartime partner now wore a blue jacket that was similar to the cutoff tunics of the cavalry, his boots were polished and gleaming, and the trousers fit his lithe form like a glove. He was not surprised to realize that Jim also wore an underarm holster complete with a compact, efficient little pistol.

Walking through the muddle of tracks, cars, and engines until they reached the site where the short train was parked, Artie surveyed the situation with some skepticism. He saw the engine, where a couple of men were apparently performing maintenance; the coal hopper, then what appeared to be an ordinary boxcar, and at the end, a single car with an ornate wrought-iron railing on its back platform. He recognized it as similar to the fancy cars wealthy men used to travel the countryside.

_Likely one donated this dilapidated car after obtaining something far finer. _Nonetheless, he followed Jim to the platform and in through the door. There he paused, looking around. The drapes on the windows were velvet, in a dark green. Fine plush sofas made up the furniture, along with a couple of chairs, and a table at the far end. This chamber was only a portion of the entire car, he realized, noting a door at the other side with an ornate, frosted glass window.

That door pushed open, and Colonel James Richmond emerged, grinning widely as he saw the pair. "Captain Gordon! Good to see you!"

Artemus accepted the warm handshake. "Good to see you as well, colonel. I'm a little overwhelmed…" He made a gesture to take in the luxurious surroundings.

Jim grinned. "This is only part of it, Artie. You'll see the rest later." He would have brought Artemus directly to the varnish car last night, but his former comrade in so many hair-raising wartime adventures, and now actor, had an engagement with his troupe members to celebrate the completion of their very successful season.

"Yes, let's get down to business. I have to return to Washington tonight, but I'll be back in Wyoming soon." Richmond sat down on one of the sofas, waving to Artemus to sit beside him, while Jim moved a chair over. "We have some planning to do. Gordon, thank you for agreeing to help. This is a difficult and delicate situation."

"I can see the difficulty. But why delicate?"

"Because Marston Manwaring is a wealthy man and a respected one, despite his anti-Union stance in a primarily pro-Union area."

"Money will do that," Jim muttered.

"Are you absolutely certain this Manwaring is behind the fake money?" Artemus asked. "Did Tim Galvin leave information…?"

"All Galvin told us was that he was certain Manwaring was involved," the colonel replied. "He did not provide any proof before his death."

"But it seems obvious," Jim persisted, his voice harsh. "Manwaring hates the United States, especially because his brother died fighting to destroy it, not to mention that the Confederacy failed. Plain to see."

"But he still has the money, and the influence," Richmond stated calmly. "And we need proof."

"I take it that's what you want me to get." Artie was watching his younger friend. _There's more to it, I'm sure. I think I need some private words with the colonel._

"We want you to ingratiate yourself with Marston Manwaring," the colonel went on. "Perhaps even to the point where he'll invite you to join his scheme."

"Sounds familiar," Artie murmured. The first assignment, when he and Jim West set out to discredit a man who was building his own army to purportedly quell Unionists still abiding in the Confederacy, had been completely successful. The letters they stole and delivered to Union headquarters were published north and south, completely ruining the reputation of Boyd Garnett and his plans to create his own empire in the South. [See _The Night of the Beginning._]

Richmond's gaze was direct. "Gordon, I want you to understand that even though I've arranged for you to be a temporary employee of the Secret Service, whereby you will receive a salary, the option to accept is entirely up to you. I know you have resumed your stage career quite successfully. It was only when we learned that your troupe was finishing its season and would not be opening rehearsals for several weeks did West and I decide to approach you."

"I know that, colonel, and I thank you for your consideration… and also for even thinking of me. I'm quite happy doing what I'm doing. However…" He glanced at the somber West. "However, I have to admit that acting on stage is rather routine—and sometimes even dull—compared to what Jim and I experienced during the war. I'm quite anxious for a break in that routine." _Plus that blasted sense that I need to be there to watch Jim's back is returning, full force. It never left during wartime. I know he was there for me at all times, and I needed to be there for him. Knowing that he's planning to return to Wyoming where he's known as a government agent and where another agent died… It's a good thing I didn't know what kind of work he's been doing this last year!_

"Very well," Richmond nodded. "But if you change your mind…" 

"I won't."

Jim's grin was wry. "You can believe him, Colonel. Once Artemus makes up his mind, that's it. Most stubborn man I know."

"Pot calling the kettle black," Artie grinned back.

Richmond glanced back and forth between the pair. He had worked with them during the conflict, and knew that while each separately was superb in carrying out assigned duties, together they were incredible. Nonetheless he knew that if he and Grant acquired any gray hairs during those years, at least a few were attributable to these two. They took chances and amazingly survived.

"All right," he said aloud. "Here's the dossier we have compiled on Major Palmer Hannon, late of the Twenty-fourth Georgia Infantry—currently residing in Leavenworth Penitentiary on a charge of larceny and attempted murder."

Artie's brows lifted as he accepted the folder. "Sounds like a pleasant character."

"Very. Most importantly, his crimes were rather… should we say routine? He did not get a lot of publicity while committing them nor for his trial. He'll be incarcerated for another two years at least, so little chance exists that his current situation is known in Wyoming. Also, while he was a high-ranking officer, he did not have a particularly distinguished career. Therefore, it's unlikely that Manwaring ever heard of him except perhaps by name in a letter from his brother. No record exists of personal contact between Nelson Manwaring and Palmer Hannon. We went so far as to have Hannon questioned at Leavenworth and he does not recall the name Manwaring."

"Or claims he doesn't," Jim said with some sarcasm.

"According to the warden," Richmond went on, "Hannon is extremely anxious to do anything that might shorten his sentence. The warden believes that Hannon is being truthful in this instance. He enlisted from another county in Georgia, so didn't even know the Manwaring family when they resided in that state. He was eventually transferred to Manwaring's regiment when they lost a couple of officers."

Artemus was leafing through the papers in his lap. "I'll study these. What about appearance?"

"I don't think that matters. I'm not sure a photograph of Hannon exists, and if so, very unlikely that Manwaring ever saw it. Nor do we have any information that would lead us to believe anyone else in that part of Wyoming ever met Hannon. At least, other than Manwaring, no former Georgians reside there."

Artie nodded. "Perhaps I'll allow my whiskers to grow. It's always safer if they are real. I presume we have a week or so…"

Jim spoke up. "I think by the time you gather all you need and we travel to Wyoming, you should have a nice beard."

Richmond got to his feet. "I have to get back to my hotel and ready myself for my trip back to Washington. I'll catch up with you later in Wyoming. Gordon, do you want to share a hack?"

Artie was momentarily torn. He wanted to see more of the train and spend some time with his old friend, yet he also felt he needed to know a little more about the situation, especially from the colonel. He stood up. "Yes, colonel, thank you. Jim, how about if I come back later today?"

"Fine. I need to talk to the crew to find out when the train is going to be ready to roll. By the way, I'm sure you remember Orrin Cobb, Artie."

"Most certainly. Is he your engineer?"

"Yep."

Artemus grinned. "Then you have the best."

He and the colonel did not speak until they were in the cab heading for downtown. Then the colonel said, "You want to know about Jim."

"And Tim Galvin. What happened? I know Jim well enough to realize he's blaming himself."

Richmond sighed. "The last message we received in Washington from Galvin asked for help. Jim was in Denver at the time, testifying at a trial, so he was the natural choice. However, there was a breakdown in communications. The telegrapher in Washington did not include 'urgent' or 'deliver immediately' in the message, and the information did not reach Jim until the next day when he found it in his mailbox at his hotel."

"That wasn't Jim's fault!"

"Of course not. But you know Jim, Artemus. He can take the weight of the world on his shoulders. He rushed to Wyoming, but it was too late. Galvin was dead. The fact that they'd become good friends and worked together a fair amount of time over the last months played into it."

"I'm sure," Artie said softly. "Is that why he's still on the case, even though he's probably a marked man?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. He threatened to resign if reassigned. We can't lose him, Artemus. Not that way. Jim West promises to be one of the finest lawmen the country has ever known. He's bright, intuitive, and can handle himself in almost all situations." Richmond smiled slightly. "If he was good with disguises as you are, we wouldn't even need you."

"Well, thank God for that. I'll take care of him, colonel. I promise."

W*W*W*W*W

Two days later the train, which Artemus learned had been tagged "The Wanderer," left the Chicago yards, heading west. He was astounded by the facilities on the car, raving not only over the galley—informing Jim that he was learning a new appreciation of the culinary art—but also the individual, reasonably roomy compartments with comfortable beds. The second car, which he had thought was an ordinary boxcar, contained stalls for horses, as well as the quarters for the crew and bins for storage.

"Man could set up a dandy laboratory here too," he mused.

Jim glanced at him. "A laboratory?"

"James my boy, surely you recall that I told you my father was a pharmacist and I learned a great deal of chemistry and science from him, as well as over the years since then. I read a lot of scientific literature, even met and talked to some noted scientists. It's an avocation. I love to tinker. Had I the time, I'm sure I could come up with all sorts of handy-dandy gadgets."

Jim rolled his eyes. "I think a gun and my fists are enough for me."

"True. Most of the time. But aren't there times when it would be good to, say, incapacitate more than one man, and in a hurry. I can think of a few instances when we were fleeing a Reb patrol when a gas or explosion would have come in handy."

"And how would you come up with this 'spur of the moment' gas or explosion?"

"There are ways, I assure you. I haven't had opportunity to actually test all of the devices, but I'm certain they will work. Might revolutionize crime-fighting."

"Not going to be of much use to you on the stage."

"Ah, but you are wrong there!" Artemus held up a wagging finger, grinning. "We once performed a play written by one of our members where a man was required to disappear in a puff of smoke. I created a glass ball of chemicals that, when broken, created a non-poisonous colorful mist that worked just fine. It dissipated rapidly as well. Quite a sensation. Unfortunately, the remainder of the drama was not."

Jim cocked his head. "Who was the writer?"

Artie winked. "Anonymous fellow. Lost to obscurity as an author of stage plays."

Jim just laughed and led the way back to the parlor car. He had almost forgotten how good it was to spend time with Artemus Gordon. Artie always could make him laugh, and sometimes seemed to not be taking life seriously. Jim was quite aware, however, that that was not the case. In a pinch he wanted no one else at his side—or at his back.

"I missed you, Artie."

Artemus was surprised by the sudden declaration, and he could see that Jim was surprised as well, even a bit embarrassed, turning to retrieve a bottle of brandy from a cupboard along with two glasses. "Well, of course you did. Where else are you going to encounter a raconteur with such exquisite tastes, sparkling conversation, knowledge of the world…"?

"Knowledge of the world? Where have you been besides the United States?"

Artie sniffed. "I have visited Canada, you know."

Laughing, Jim handed a snifter to his friend, and lifted his own. "To good days past and better to come."

"Here, here." Artemus sipped the excellent liquor. "Do you travel like this often?"

"No. This train gets passed around as needed. I think one would have to be pretty special to have permanent use of it. Would be nice, though."

"I'll say! And handy! Man could move around the country without regard to train schedules." He moved to sit on the sofa. "I suppose we'd better talk business."

For the next two hours, as the train rolled toward Wyoming, they discussed the upcoming job. Jim relayed to Artemus everything he knew about Marston Manwaring. "He's about forty-five. Apparently left Georgia about ten years ago and claimed some land. Later, as he grew more successful, he bought up surrounding land from previous settlers. And became even more wealthy. Ironically, although he supported the Confederacy so strongly, he sold beef to the U.S. Army during the war, and still does."

"It's money," Artie commented.

"Yeah. A number of women of the proper age have tried to rope him, but he's not interested in marriage. Someone told me they heard a rumor that he had lost a sweetheart when younger, but it's not sure whether she died or jilted him. In any case, he doesn't appear to trust females."

Artie nodded. "That's something to keep in mind."

"He's also a teetotaler."

"Oh no!"

"I'm afraid so. You won't find a drop of alcohol in his home, and he stays out of the local taverns."

Artemus sighed with great exaggeration. "I suppose I'll survive." He took a generous swallow of the brandy. "Are you sure this Puritan is a counterfeiter?"

"All signs point to it. Tim thought so. Only Tim didn't want to send the information over the telegraph wires… and he was dead by the time I got there."

Seeing the renewed sadness in Jim's eyes, Artie plunged on. He knew better than to offer sympathy or to try to convince Jim he was not responsible for Galvin's death. "Any chance Galvin left the information somewhere? With someone?"

"If so, I don't know where. No one came forward while I was there."

"How long did you remain?"

"Three days. Long enough to be contacted if anyone had information for me."

"I presume everyone knew your business there."

"I spoke to the local law when Tim was not where he was supposed to be. That's how I learned… about his death."

"I wish I could convince you to stay away." Artie spoke softly.

Jim did not reply, looking out the window at the moving scenery for a long moment. Then he brought his gaze back. "I'll give you a day's head start, let you try to make contact with Manwaring."

Artie swallowed a sigh. Something he had learned during three long years of war was that Jim West never backed away. "It shouldn't be all that difficult. I'll just ride up to the ranch, introduce myself… and go from there."

W*W*W*W*W

_Pour tromper un rival l'artifice est permis; on peut tout employer contre ses ennemis._

[Artifice is allowable in deceiving a rival; we may employ everything against our enemies.]

—_Les Tuileries_, Armand Jean du Plessis, Duc de Richelieu (1585-1642), French cardinal and statesman

"Palmer Hannon?"

"That's right, sir, former major with the Twenty-fourth Georgia. I was passing through this area when I heard the name Manwaring mentioned. I took the liberty of asking around and learned that you are kin to one of the fine young men I commanded… and lost. I had to come by. I hope I'm not intruding, sir." Artemus removed the wide-brimmed hat he had donned in his role. He affected a deep southern accent.

Marston Manwaring gazed at him with narrowed eyes. Manwaring was a few inches taller than Artemus, and a great deal thinner. His face was rather square, with a slightly jutting dimpled chin. He wore a brushy mustache that was the same dark blond shade as his thick straight hair. "I seem to recall Nelson writing about a Major Hannon."

"Your brother was a good man. We lost many good men… and… of course, the war." Artie saw Manwaring's eyes harden.

"The war that should never have been lost!" The anger flared and died quickly. Manwaring shook his head. "But that's in the past. Come inside, won't you, Major? From the look of you and your horse, you've traveled far."

"That I have," Artie sighed. "I couldn't stay in Georgia any longer. Not under a Yankee government. I tried but… I'm sure you understand. I'm heading for Oregon, and if I can't find my place there, maybe up into Canada." They entered the front room of the sprawling one-story house. "I have to admit I was surprised to learn that you reside in Wyoming. Nelson gave me to believe you were a staunch supporter of The Cause."

Manwaring waved his visitor to sit down, then went to a door on the other side of the room and yelled. "Ernesto!" Then he turned back. "Sorry I can't offer you something stronger than water, but I don't keep spirits in the house." A middle-aged Mexican man, on the portly side, appeared. "_Ernesto, llevar agua fría para nuestros clientes, por favor." _The servant dipped his head, and with one quick glance toward Artemus, retreated. Manwaring took a large plush chair opposite the sofa Artie had seated himself on.

"I think something wet is all I need right now," Artie smiled. He did not want to let on that he understood that Manwaring had ordered cold water; a man of Palmer Hannon's background would not likely speak or understand Spanish. "I had a beer in town, but the ride out here was long and dry."

"You are a drinking man, Major?"

Artie shrugged. "Upon occasion. I do believe that alcohol impairs one's thinking, as well as can damage the health in the long run. I've never felt the necessity to become a complete teetotaler. I believe I know enough to keep my libations moderate and infrequent."

Manwaring was nodding with approval. "My father, I'm afraid, was a drinker, as well as a gambler. Between the two, he lost a good portion of the family property in Georgia. That's a primary reason why you find me here, Major. When he died I sold what was left and moved to this territory, where I felt I could put what money I had to good use. And it has paid off."

Now Artemus nodded. "I distinctly got the impression by signs and fences I saw that your holdings are rather extensive. Also, when I asked about you in town, I saw the deep respect the citizens hold toward you." That was true. Not one person even frowned when he asked about Marston Manwaring. _Jim is usually in control of his emotions, but I'm wondering if this is one time when he's not. He's built up a hatred of Marston Manwaring that may be coloring his judgment, and he's roped the colonel into his beliefs._

Ernesto brought a tray bearing a pitcher of clear water and two tumblers. He silently filled them and handed one to each man before departing again. Manwaring lifted his glass. "To the Confederacy, and what might have been."

"It'll never be the same again," Artie sighed. _Thank God!_ "I imagine you found it to be very different when you arrived here."

"Oh, indeed." Manwaring chuckled. "I suppose the most difficult part was the idea of paying wages! But you know, something I've learned is that I get better and more loyal service from these men that I'm paying. I even have three Negro hands that are among the best of the bunch. We live and learn, I guess."

"That is surprising. But it must be very expensive."

"True. At first it was quite demanding, but over the years, I increased my holdings, as well as my profits." He sighed, looking down into his glass of water for a moment. "The sad part is now I'm feeling it's all for naught. Nelson was to be my heir. He was almost a dozen years my junior, and was more of a son than a brother."

"You are not married?"

"No." Manwaring did not offer any further explanation. "Do you plan to remain in this area for long, Major Hannon?"

Artie shrugged. "I had not given it much thought. I have taken a room at the little hotel in town. After being on horseback for several days, camping out at night, the thought of a bed was too tempting." He smiled and shook his head.

"I can imagine. Why don't you stay with me while you are here? I have plenty of room. It would be good to talk to you… about Nelson and other matters."

"Why thank you, Mr. Manwaring. That's most generous of you, sir!"_ And just what I hoped you would say!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul,  
>Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society.<br>—_The Grave_ (l. 87), Robert Blair (1699-1746), Scottish poet and clergyman 

Aware that he was the object of interest as he rode down the dusty street just after midday, Jim kept his gaze mostly ahead, glancing only to the side occasionally, finally reining his sorrel horse toward the building designated as the sheriff's office and jail. Some of the observers undoubtedly remembered him from his last visit, but other than that, strangers were a novelty in this part of the country. Dismounting, he tied the horse's reins to the post, and stepped up onto the rough wood porch. The door was standing open against the warmth of the day.

"Sheriff Rivers?"

The middle-aged man standing near the rack of rifles on the wall turned, some surprise registering in the blue eyes above the walrus mustache. "Why, it's Mr. West, ain't it? Wasn't sure we'd be seeing you again."

Jim stepped inside. "The murder of our agent has not been solved yet."

Rivers sighed. "That's true, ain't it? I just ain't so sure it's ever gonna be."

"It will if I have anything to say about it."

The sheriff moved to sit on a mended chair in front of a battered roll top desk. "Well, I'll tell you, Mr. West, it's gonna take more information than I got to find out who did it. A thirty-caliber slug is pretty common around here. No witnesses. Nothing."

"I'm hoping that my presence will make someone nervous enough to make a mistake."

Rivers' eyes widened. "You're thinking he might come after you? That ain't smart. He got away with one killin'. Chances are he can do it again!"

Jim folded his arms across his chest, gazing coolly at the older lawman. "That's not saying much about your abilities as a law officer."

Rivers shrugged. "I never said I was a big city copper. I handle horse thieves and cattle rustlers just fine. Back-shootin' murder is above my head, and I ain't ashamed to admit it!"

Jim sighed. "Well, that's why I'm here. Have there been any strangers in the area recently?"

"Just a fellow that rode in yesterday. Took a room at the hotel and then asked some questions about Mr. Manwaring. I guess he rode out to the ranch to visit, and Mr. Manwaring invited him to stay there, on account of he came back and got his gear and went back out there."

_Good going, Artie!_ At least that part of the plan was working. "Any idea who he is?"

"Nope. I didn't talk to him. Southerner, though, accordin' to the ones what did talk to him. Maybe some kin to Mr. Manwaring. You still think Mr. Manwaring is some kind of criminal?"

"I don't know. I'm trying to keep an open mind." Jim hoped his own beliefs were not showing in his face. Apparently he was successful in hiding his thoughts, for the sheriff just shrugged and shook his head.

"Well, I can tell you again, you're barkin' up the wrong tree. Mr. Manwaring might have been supportin' the South, but there's lotsa men done that, even in this county. Ain't no crime far as I know, long as they don't do nothin' against the government now that the war is over."

"Very true, sheriff. However, that's what I'm looking into, whether he—or anyone else—_has_ committed any recent crimes."

Rivers sighed. "You're a stubborn young fellow, ain't you?"

Jim had to smile slightly. "So I've been told. I'll be around awhile, sheriff."

"Well, if I hear anything, I'll be sure to tell you. But you watch your back, Mr. West. Whoever killed Galvin sure ain't gonna like you nosin' around again."

"That is exactly what I hope will happen." With a wave, Jim left the office. He took the reins of the horse and walked down the street to the small building that passed itself off as the hotel, really just a large house that rented rooms. The proprietor had a very pretty daughter, and she was at the desk in the large foyer when he stepped inside.

The brown eyes of Holly Cormack widened in delight. "Why, Mr. West! I didn't expect to see you again!"

He grinned. "There are certain charms of this town that I couldn't forget." She was eighteen or nineteen, and Jim knew she had a steady suitor, but that did not stop her from flirting with him.

"Are you going to stay long?" she asked as she opened the register book for him.

"A few days at least, I'm sure. Depends on how soon my business is completed."

Her smile vanished. "Are you still looking for the man who killed your friend?"

"Yes."

"Oh, that's so dangerous! You really shouldn't!"

Jim gazed at her. "I'm a federal agent, Miss Cormack. The man who was killed was an agent as well, along with being my friend. We cannot allow someone to get away with that."

She sighed noisily. "I suppose not. But you will be careful won't you?"

"I will. Same room as before?"

"Yes, it's still vacant." She handed him a key. "It is nice to see you again, Mr. West."

He grinned. "The feeling is mutual, Miss Cormack."

She blushed.

Jim took his gear to the second floor room in the front. Not a large room, but he did not need much space. The bed was comfortable and the window overlooked the street. After putting his few possessions in the small bureau, he went back downstairs, smiling toward Holly as he headed out the door.

The town had three saloons, and on his previous visit, Jim had learned that MacNulty's was the hub of the town, and where he would find the most information. It was also the largest of the three. One of the others, called the Oaken Bucket, was a place where older men gathered to play checkers and talk over a drink or two. The other one's principal operation seemed to be to provide "ladies" to entertain the gents. MacNulty's had a few women, and they could be bought, but nowhere near the population of "Helma's Haven for Gentlemen."

As he entered MacNulty's, he knew that his appearance was no surprise to the current patrons. The word had already spread that the government agent had returned. He went up to the bar and asked for a beer, which was delivered by the stoic bartender who had not cracked a smile during his previous visits to MacNulty's either. The barkeep took his money and moved away.

"West, isn't it?"

Jim turned to the man standing next to him, picking up his glass of beer as he did so. He saw a man a few years older than himself, a half-foot taller, with a bushy blond beard and broad shoulders. "That's right. Mr. Cooley, as I recall."

"Correct. What brings you back to Carvers Landing?"

Farold Cooley was the local blacksmith, but Jim had noticed on his previous visit that he seemed to spend more time in MacNulty's than at his forge. Upon mentioning this to another man, he had learned that Cooley inherited the business from his father, but preferred to let a hired man do most of the work. His face had the dissipated appearance of a man who imbibed far too much. Jim had also been told that Cooley liked a fight and was known to pick one just for the fun of it.

"Nice town," Jim said easily.

"Figured you was nosing around about your friend. You think someone here done that?"

"I don't know. It's a possibility."

"You accusing friends of mine?"

"Who are your friends?"

"Mr. Manwaring."

Jim took a swallow of his beer, keeping his eyes on Cooley. He had never openly accused Marston Manwaring of any crime during his previous stint in this area. Jim had introduced himself and his official status to Sheriff Rivers as a matter of courtesy to the local law, not realizing how much of a gossip Rivers was. Obviously Cooley had learned of Jim West's interest in Manwaring through that lawman.

"Why would Mr. Manwaring want to harm my friend?"

Cooley took a swing then. Expecting such a move, Jim ducked it easily, placing his glass on the bar top. "Slow down, mister," he warned. But the blacksmith had had a few too many and was intent on trouble, sending a second fist toward Jim's chin, this time barely grazing it as Jim jerked back. Jim grabbed that arm, twisted it behind Cooley's back, and shoved the man forward with a knee in the rump.

Cooley sprawled on his face, but was on his feet more swiftly than Jim expected. He charged, eyes blazing, and Jim found himself trapped momentarily between the bar and a patron who could not move fast enough to give him room. Cooley grabbed him by the shoulders and hurled him toward a nearby table. Crashing into it, Jim felt the edge jam into his ribs before it skittered and tipped over. He went down, but as Cooley had, came up quickly.

This time when the bigger man hurtled toward him, fists flying, Jim fended them off with his forearms, and got in two quick punches to the midriff that sent Cooley staggering back, bent over and gasping for breath. He was not out of it however, and his rage seemed only to increase. Once more he stormed in, getting a solid punch against Jim's jaw that caused him to spin and stagger, stunned. Cooley took advantage, moving in and wrapping his muscular arms around Jim's body, with Jim's back to his chest.

Jim immediately tried to kick Cooley's shins, but the bigger man spread his legs apart, making them more difficult to reach. Prying at the vise-like hands that clenched him was of no avail, nor did trying to use his own head as a weapon against his assailant's chin. Cooley squeezed tighter, laughing softly in Jim's ear as he did so. Jim West knew that if he did not break the hold soon he would be lightheaded from the inability to breathe fully.

His opportunity came as Cooley became overconfident, swinging his victim slightly until Jim found himself just a couple of feet away from the saloon's heavy, polished bar. Swiftly he lifted his legs, allowing Cooley's grip to support him, jammed his boots against the bar's wooden side, and pushed hard. The move surprised his antagonist. Cooley staggered back, his arms loosening.

That was all that Jim needed. He burst completely free by spreading his arms wider in one quick, forceful move. Taking a moment to gulp in a couple of full breaths of air, he went after the blacksmith, fists pumping and taking advantage of the bigger man's slower reflexes. Cooley got in one more punch, one that grazed Jim's forehead, and that was all. Within minutes, he was on his knees, then face down on the barroom floor.

Jim stepped back to the bar to pick up his waiting beer, took a long swallow then turned to face the gaping onlookers, which now included Sheriff Rivers. The local law officer moved forward, taking a long look at the man sprawled on the floor.

"It's been a while since anyone took Cooley down like that. He ain't gonna take kindly to it, Mr. West."

"I can't help that, sheriff. I have work to do here."

"What started it?"

Jim shrugged, taking another swallow of his drink. "He seemed to take offense after hearing somewhere that I questioned Marston Manwaring in connection with Tim Galvin's death."

The sheriff pulled off his hat and ran his fingers through his graying hair. "Well, I expect a few folks wouldn't take kindly to that."

Another man stepped forward, a thin man dressed all in black except for a snowy white shirt. "We didn't meet last time you were here, Mr. West. I'm Willis Newhouse. I own the funeral parlor and the barbershop."

"How do you do, Mr. Newhouse."

The undertaker-barber seemed momentarily taken aback by the young agent's polite greeting. He blinked rapidly. "The point is, Mr. West, that the sheriff is right. Mr. Manwaring is our good friend. We don't like hearing that someone thinks he's involved in murder."

"I spoke to Mr. Manwaring about Tim Galvin's death because Galvin worked for him."

Rivers pointed an accusing finger. "Yeah, but you said—"

Jim cut off the sheriff's words. "Sheriff, a serious crime that threatens the United States may be originating in this area. Mr. Galvin was sent here to investigate it. Someone killed him, possibly because he came close to discovering the culprits. I questioned Mr. Manwaring because, as I stated, Mr. Galvin was on his ranch for a short while. Mr. Manwaring informed me he had no knowledge of anything. That's where it stands. I've been ordered back here to continue the investigation."

The room was very quiet as the men in attendance digested his words. Newhouse's eyes again fluttered rapidly. "Mr. West, folks are law-abiding here. Good number of us supported the Union in the late war. My own son fought in it, and thankfully came home. A couple of boys didn't. Reckon you know about Mr. Manwaring's brother."

"I do."

"Mr. Manwaring supported the South, which some of us don't agree with. But he's a good man. He's done a lot for this area. We don't want him harassed for no good reason."

Jim smiled slightly. "Don't worry. That won't happen. I'm not even sure I'm going to talk to him on this trip. Not right away, at least." _Not until I hear from Artie!_

Once more the eyes blinked, apparently a nervous habit. "Well, that's fine then. Like I say, we're law-abiding. If you can prove that anybody—including Mr. Manwaring—is guilty, we'll go along with it. But you better have very good proof."

"You can be assured of that, Mr. Newhouse. I do not intend to railroad anyone for a crime they didn't commit." Jim reached down to pick up the black hat that had fallen off his head to the floor. "Good day, gentlemen."

He was aware that someone followed him out the door, but did not look around until he was halfway across the street and heard his name called. He paused. "Yes, Sheriff Rivers?"

The older man hurried up to him and they continued to the other side. "Mr. West, you never did tell me what kind of criminals you are looking for here."

"I'd rather not give you the specifics at this time."

Rivers' cheeks reddened. "I reckon I spoke out of turn when you was here the other time, telling folks more than they needed to know. I apologize for that. I guess I didn't know how serious things are."

"They are serious," Jim nodded. "I can't give you any further information now. I have to wait for clearance from my superiors."

"Oh. All right. Well, if I can help you, just let me know. I never seen anyone handle Farold Cooley like that. He's pretty loyal to Mr. Manwaring mostly, I guess, on account of the business thrown his way. Farold always had leanings toward the South too, even though his folks came here from Illinois."

Jim thanked him and continued on his way to his waiting horse. Mounting, and aware of his slightly sore ribs with the movement, he headed out of town toward the river and eventually came to the area where Tim Galvin's body had been found caught in some bushes along the bank. He had inspected the area previously, yet felt drawn to return, even while knowing that determining the exact site of Tim's death was nearly impossible at this time. Chances were it had occurred somewhere upstream, and possibly not even on the riverbank. The killer or killers very likely thought that the body would continue to wash downstream, perhaps never be found, or never identified if it had been. Tim had not been carrying any identification in his guise as a drifter.

_If only I hadn't been delayed! If only that telegraph message had been delivered on time, I might have been here and Tim would still be alive!_

Or else they would both be dead. Jim knew that was a possibility. Whoever ambushed Tim would have had no qualms about killing a second agent. Nevertheless, he could not help but feel that mix-up in Denver had cost Tim Galvin his life. Jim knew his feelings were irrational. What had occurred had been beyond his control. He had not been expecting a communication from the other agent, and his plans had been to join Tim as soon as he finished his testimony. Had he known Tim was telegraphing him, he would have gone to the telegraph office himself…

But he had not known. He had slept soundly that night, unaware that his friend was probably already dead, or at least doomed. _And now I'm involving another friend in this! What was I thinking of?_ He gazed out over the muddy, swiftly flowing waters of the river, fed by recent storms. _First chance I get, I'm telling Artie to clear out. I should have followed my first instincts back in Chicago. This is not his concern. He's not a spy or a scout now, definitely not an agent. He has no business risking his life!_

He rode along the riverbank, unknowing of what he was looking for, just looking. He had ridden this same path a few weeks ago, with the same sense of futility and helplessness. He had no clues. As far as the sheriff was concerned, Tim had been slain by someone passing through, maybe in a robbery. Rivers could not say for sure that Tim had any money on him prior to this death, but he certainly had none when the body was found.

Suddenly hearing a shout, Jim's hand went to the butt of his gun as he twisted in the saddle to determine the source. He saw a horse and rider coming across a field at a fast lope toward him, waving a hand. For one moment, Jim considered seeking cover in a nearby copse, but recognized first the buckskin horse, and then the man in the saddle, despite the heavy beard.

"What are you doing out here, Artie?" he asked as Gordon pulled up his mount beside him.

"Looking over the countryside. What about you?"

Jim glanced around then jerked his head for his companion to follow as he headed for the clump of trees and brush fifty feet away from the riverbank. Once inside that cover, he dismounted, and Artie did the same.

"I'm looking over the crime scene."

Artemus stared toward the river. "Is that where Tim was killed?"

"His body was found about a mile downstream. The actual murder site has never been determined."

"And you thought you might be able to find it? After all this time? It's been raining around here, Jim."

"I know. I was just… looking. What are you doing?"

"As I said, just exploring the countryside. Manwaring has pretty much given me the run of the place. I am all but certain the counterfeiting press is not in the house or any of the buildings at the main ranch. No place it could be hidden."

"So he's accepted you as his brother's commanding officer?"

"Seems so. As planned, I've been careful to not make it seem I was close to Nelson. Don't want to run the risk of making a mistake there. But Manwaring is still grieving for his brother. He told me he looked on Nelson as his heir, being as he was so much younger."

"Doesn't mean he's not plotting to damage the country's finances," Jim growled.

"I know that. I'm just saying that thus far I have seen nothing to indicate his complicity. I also know that I've been there only a short time. Manwaring has invited me to stay as long as I care to." _And I'm already feeling guilty about deceiving him. I like the man!_

Jim looked down at the ground for a moment then lifted his gaze. "I think you should get the hell out of here, Artie."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"I should not have involved you, Artie. This isn't your business anymore. You have a life…"

"Which I love. I love the stage and the acclaim. But the last few days have caused me to realize how much I miss the excitement of what we did together during the war, James."

"Artie, it's dangerous!"

"No kidding!" Artie grinned broadly. He could see the worry in the depths of Jim's green eyes. Jim would not come right out and say what he was feeling, but Artie knew him well enough now. After losing one friend, and blaming himself at least partially for it, Jim did not want another one hurt.

Jim exhaled loudly. "Artie, you…"

"Forget it, Jim. I'm in and I'm staying. I'm going to say it flat out, too. I think you are wrong about Manwaring."

Jim shook his head firmly. "No. No, I'm not. Tim thought…"

"You already said you don't know exactly what Tim found. Just because he worked for a few days on the ranch does not mean that Marston Manwaring was his prime suspect. He may have found some indication of who the counterfeiter was there, but not necessarily Manwaring!"

"Then who, damn it?"

"I don't know, Jim. I've talked to some of the ranch hands, and mentioned I heard gossip in town that one of their fellows had been murdered. Most of them liked Tim, but thought he was secretive, and also nosy. One told me Tim asked him all kinds of questions about Manwaring's political beliefs and seemed to be trying to find out if Manwaring still held a grudge against the Union."

"What did the fellow say to Tim?"

"Well, I wasn't able to dig that deeply. Not yet. This ranch hand, Ormsby by name, was the only one who did not seem to have liked Tim too well. Another told me Ormsby was jealous because Tim was a good hand, and was receiving praise from others. Ormsby considered himself the top hand. By the way, what happened to your face?"

Jim lifted a hand to touch the sore spot on his jaw. "Had a bit of a run-in with one of Manwaring's supporters in town. The blacksmith."

Artie's brows lifted. "The blacksmith? Seems to me you could have chosen a smaller fellow, James. I got a peek at that blacksmith when I was in town."

Now Jim unconsciously rested a hand against his still-aching ribs. "Believe me I would have if I had had the option."

Now Artemus frowned. "Think he was sent to choose you?"

Jim thought a moment. "No. Not really. He was already in the saloon when I went in. I'd only been in town an hour or so. Not time for…"

Artie finished the sentence as Jim's words halted. "No time for Manwaring to have sent word into town? Jim, I hate to say this, but if you're going to make any progress on this case, you're going to have to stop being fixated on Manwaring."

Jim turned his back, staring out toward the river. "He's guilty, Artie. I know it."

"All right, so you know it. You have to prove it. And you're not going to prove it unless you allow yourself to see the broader picture. I just told you I'm certain the counterfeiting is not being done at the main ranch. I'm going to continue to probe Manwaring, as well as his hired men, and to ride over his property as far as he allows."

Now Jim swung back. "And if he warns you away from an area…"

"Then I'll definitely investigate it." Artie grinned.

"Then you'll get word to _me_ and _I'll_ investigate it! Artie, remember, you're not an official agent."

"Oh? Then why am I planted in the hornet's nest?"

"That's what I mean! You need to ride away."

"James, you always were the most single-minded man I ever knew! I am not leaving. Not until the job is done, or…"

"Or you're dead." Jim's eyes blazed. "That's what I want to prevent, don't you see? Go back to Chicago and your acting. That's where you belong!"

"Is it? Was that where I belonged when we stole the battle plans out from under the nose of that South Carolina colonel? Or when we hid out for three days without supplies in order to watch Early's movements in the Shenandoah? Or how about the time—"

Jim stopped him with a wave of the hand. "That was wartime, Artie. We were ordered to do it!"

"Yes, we were ordered," Artie said softly, keeping his brown eyes locked on the green ones. "But in more than one case we were given the option of refusing. We never did. Why? Because we knew we were the best; that we had the best chance of succeeding; that other men might lose their lives if we did not succeed. Men did die, just as Tim died, but not because we failed, James. More lives were saved because we succeeded! Together, James, we were the best the army had. And who knows… maybe we still are."

Jim finally dropped his eyes. "I know, Artie. I know. It's just…"

Artie reached out, clamped a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "I know, Jim. I understand. I remember the feeling when friends died. Even when we provided the best information possible to the commanders, men still died. You are not responsible for what happened to Tim Galvin. It was simply a quirk of fate."

"I should have been here!" Green eyes blazed again as they lifted.

Now Artie folded his arms across his chest. "So, you are prescient, now? You carry a crystal ball with you at all times?"

Jim could not help but smile a little now. "You always were able to put things in perspective."

"I try, James my boy. I try."

"Okay. You'd better get moving before someone spots us. I—I could be wrong about Manwaring. I'll try to have a more open mind. But remember, Artie, things are not always what they seem!"

"I will keep that in mind, and suggest you do as well. Take care of yourself, James." Artie swung into the saddle. "And stay away from burly blacksmiths. See ya!" With a wave he guided his horse out of the brush and headed across the field again.

Jim watched him until he vanished over a rise then exhaled another gusty sigh. It was true. Artie always had the ability to make him see more clearly. He needed to push aside his grief and sense of guilt, and stop focusing entirely on Manwaring. Even if Marston Manwaring was responsible, he could be—and was—a clever man; a man with the ability to hide his tracks completely.

However, if he was guilty, Manwaring was not in it alone. He had to have accomplices, someone to procure supplies, to help print the money, and then to distribute the counterfeits. Above all, someone had to be creating the plates from which those counterfeit bills were produced. Those accomplices might not be as sharp; they could make mistakes. That was what he had to look for, to watch for. He needed to ask different questions as well. They had a few clues regarding the men who passed the bills in the cities where the money had turned up. _Focus. I need to change my focus._

Jim was smiling as he mounted. He had forgotten what it had been like to have Artemus Gordon at his side. Not really forgotten, but shoved into the back of his mind, never expecting to experience the camaraderie and sameness of thought again. They were so different in personality and abilities—yet they had blended together perfectly. _Something I'll never understand!_

W*W*W*W*W

When Artemus entered the ranch house, he found Manwaring had a visitor, a short and stocky man with wiry dark hair that seemed to stand straight out from his head in all directions, although he kept it cut fairly short. Artie suspected that no amount of pomade would control it. His mustache, on the other hand, lay neatly against his upper lip.

"Major Hannon, I'd like you to meet Hiram Doolin, my second in command here on the ranch. He's been away for a few days on business."

Artie extended his hand. "How do you do, sir." _What kind of business, sir? Distributing fake money?_

"Pleased to meet you, major." Doolin had a gravelly voice. "I hear you were in the same regiment with young Nelson."

"Yes, that's true. As I told Mr. Manwaring, I had the good fortune to make his acquaintance, but I was not fortunate to know him well. I learned from his comrades what a fine young fellow he was."

"I can assure you that was the case, Major. I knew the boy back in Georgia, and then here on the ranch when I came to work for Mr. Manwaring. Fine young man."

"Indeed," Artemus concurred then excused himself saying he wanted to wash up after the ride. He went through the door that opened into the hallway where the bedrooms were, where he paused, leaving the door open a crack. Manwaring spoke first.

"Hi, make sure that shipment gets on its way promptly. We don't want to miss this opportunity."

"Sure thing, Mar. I've got it ready. Just a matter of getting it into town and onto the stage that'll go through tomorrow. I'll get one of the boys to take it to town right now."

As the meeting broke up and Doolin departed, Artie went on to his room. Deep in thought, he stripped off his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and poured cool water from the ewer into the matching basin. _Doolin's accent was southern, but sounded more Virginian than Georgian. Perhaps he had relocated there from somewhere north._

But what was the important package? Artemus did not like the sound of that, especially after he had just expressed his doubts to Jim. Not that he worried about being wrong; that had happened too many times to both of them in their work together. What concerned him was that Jim would not be watching for a Manwaring man to be putting a package on the next stagecoach through town.

_There's still time for me to go into town and get the information to him. But I doubt even a Secret Service man has the authority to disrupt the U.S. Mail without a court order. Nonetheless, I need to think of a reason to go into town, today if possible._

As it turned out, Mother Nature had other ideas. After washing up as he had said he was going to do, Artemus returned to find Manwaring seated in the front room reading a newspaper. After a few minutes of casual conversation, Artie mentioned that he thought he would ride into town to mail a letter. "I promised my niece I would write faithfully. I'm her only blood kin now, and she worries. Do you know when the next mail pickup will be?" He already knew the answer to that, having noticed the schedule on the outside wall of the general mercantile where the stage stopped and the post office was located.

"Tomorrow morning," Manwaring responded. "Stage comes through about midmorning, as a rule. Too bad you didn't mention it before. Hi Doolin is planning to head into town with some mail to post. May have already left."

"I'm afraid I'm not as diligent as Emily would like me to be," Artie smiled. "But that's fine. I suppose there's still time for me to ride in this afternoon. No real hurry."

He went out to retrieve his horse from the stable where he had left it after his return from meeting Jim, and noticed with alarm that some very dark clouds had rolled in very suddenly. Before he even reached the outbuildings, the rain started, and came down heavily. He was forced to remain in the stable with a couple of other men who got caught, and then during a lull, trotted back to the house. He knew weather well enough to realize this was not the end of the storm.

He was right. The rain pelted down in buckets, interspersed with hail, strong winds, lightning and thunder, and continued well into the evening. To attempt to ride into town would have been foolhardy—as well as suspicious. He had already indicated to Manwaring that no urgency existed. The only good news was that one of the men in the barn told him Doolin had told another man to saddle up for a trip to town, but canceled the order when the storm seemed imminent. So the package had not been taken into the post office.

Confined to the house by the weather meant more time to talk with Manwaring, but it also made things a bit trickier. With more conversations, the chances of a slip-up grew likelier. Artie continued to be very careful with what he said to Manwaring, particularly about his brother and the state of Georgia. He had spent time in that area, before, during, and after the war, so he was not completely unfamiliar with it; still he did not know the details a long-time resident might be aware of.

Most regiments north and south had been formed from companies recruited in a specific area of a state. Sometimes officers were moved from one regiment to another, and Hannon had been with the same regiment for all but the first few months of the war, having been transferred after the loss of the Twenty-fourth's original commanding officer. He should have been at least familiar with the Manwaring's home area even if he had not lived in that specific county. When the conversation turned to landmarks, or other residents of that area, Artemus deftly steered the topic away after a noncommittal remark. Manwaring did not appear to notice anything amiss.

They discussed literature, art, and music and Artemus was pleasantly surprised to find that Manwaring's tastes paralleled his own. He found he had to watch himself lest he launch into a description of his own experience acting in the Shakespearean dramas Manwaring admired. During the pre-War days in Georgia, in particular, Manwaring had traveled to the larger cities to catch performances by well-known musicians, actors, and other personages. A couple of times, Artie had to prevaricate to state he had also seen those performers in a southern city, rather than northern. Because he had actually visited, or even performed, in a few of those venues, he at least could describe the surroundings with accuracy.

He was able to guide the conversation to politics, and Manwaring opened up further regarding his feelings where the causes of the war and its results were concerned. He staunchly supported the South's purported "states' rights" issues; he had had no problem with the institution of slavery, even if he had subsequently learned that the black men could be good workers without the lash at their back.

Manwaring also fervently believed that the Confederacy had capitulated too soon, agreeing with those few who were of the opinion that a guerilla war would have eventually won it for the South. At no time in the conversation, nonetheless, did Manwaring allude to personal plans to damage the United States government in any manner, even when "Palmer Hannon" agreed wholeheartedly with all his statements, expressing disappointment that he, one man, could not do anything to alter the current situation.

Artie also wished he could ask Manwaring more about the package he was shipping, if only to comment on how the weather might interfere with its shipment and observe what reaction the question received. But he could not, seeing as how he had eavesdropped to gain that bit of insight and should not know that the "mail" Manwaring had mentioned later was a parcel. However, as the evening drew to a close and Artie rose to go to his room, he offhandedly inquired whether—if he was able to make the trip to town in the morning—he could do anything for his host. Manwaring immediately nodded.

"Perhaps so. I had asked Hi Doolin to take a package into town for me. I'm not sure if he made it out before the rain hit. If not, I would be grateful if you could take it to the post office for me. It's just a gift for a friend."

"I would be delighted, sir. Delighted." _More than you could possibly know!_

W*W*W*W*W

Jim stepped gingerly up onto the porch of the mercantile then stomped his boots to try to clear them of some of the mud. The street was a quagmire after the storms of yesterday afternoon and evening. He had barely made it back to town before the deluge hit, and except for brief trips to talk to the sheriff and to the restaurant for supper, had spent the remainder of the day inside, either in his room or, when he got desperate, across the street at the saloon.

This morning the sun was shining brightly, the temperatures were warming rapidly. Soon the street would dry to hard clay, which would be pounded to dust by hoofs, wagon wheels, and foot traffic. For now, however, anyone with business taking them outside—and particularly if they needed to cross the street—faced a difficult journey. Jim had seen one man lose his footing and sit in the sloppy mud. That man's curses had resounded up and down the street.

He knew that the roads and trails throughout the area would be in similar condition. _No use trying to find any signs of where Tim's murder occurred. If previous rains hadn't washed them away, this storm certainly did!_ Almost as though the fates were conspiring against him.

Entering the mercantile, he wiped his boots as best he could on the rags just inside the door, and then approached the counter. Another charming young lady was employed here, one with sandy hair and freckles and flirtatious blue eyes. He chatted with Annie Wagner a bit as he selected some cigarillos, glancing toward the front door as it opened again.

The man who entered was on the short side, heavily built. His hat barely fit on his head over wiry hair that wanted to throw off the attempted cover. His mustache, however, was neatly trimmed. Jim did not remember seeing him on his previous visit, but the way Annie greeted him as "Mr. Doolin" indicated he was a longtime and well-known customer. Jim paid for his purchase before stepping back to browse other merchandise.

He could not say why this man interested him, but he did. Annie led the newcomer down to the post office window. Jim idly wandered in that direction and pretended interest in a display of buckhorn knives as he kept an eye on the proceedings. Mr. Doolin posted a rather small but apparently somewhat heavy package to go out on the morning stage. "Provided," Doolin chuckled, "the stage hasn't sunk out of sight in the mud!" Jim tried to position himself so as to read the addressee, but found he could not without being too obvious.

When Mr. Doolin departed, Jim turned to Annie. "One of the ranch owners hereabouts?"

"Oh, no. He's the foreman out at Manwaring's. Been there forever I think. Has the funniest hair, don't you think? I know Mr. Newhouse despairs every time Mr. Doolin comes in for a haircut!" She giggled.

"I can well imagine." _So he works for Manwaring. Will have to see what Artie learns about Mr. Doolin._ Something about Doolin sent prickles of unease along Jim West's spine. Not often had he reacted to another man like that. The last one he could remember was a ragged fellow he and Artie came across in the Shenandoah Valley one evening. Artie took pity on the man, invited him to share their campfire and rations. Awhile later, while they slept—or the man thought they slept—he had tried to cut their throats. Fortunately, Jim had remained awake, unable to sleep with that man nearby.

Because the store was void of customers, he remained with Annie for a while, encouraging her to gossip. She had known Nelson Manwaring, but not well. He had been several years older than her. Just before he left for the war, Annie said, Nelson had been keeping company with Cora Mayne, who was now Cora Schiff. She had married the local gunsmith just last year.

_That's probably the most useful information Annie passed along_, he mused as he stepped outside to light up one of his newly purchased smokes. Hard to say what a former sweetheart might reveal about either of the Manwarings, but it might be worthwhile talking to Cora Schiff if the opportunity arose.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

When Artemus rode into town about midmorning, he saw Jim on the porch of the sheriff's office, having a conversation with that officer of the law. He also saw three young women in front of the café directly opposite with their gazes on the government agent, varying degrees of admiration and longing on their faces. Artie bit back a smile. He had seen it before. Females of all ages and persuasions appreciated the handsome young man. He himself had had his share of admirers, but rarely to the extent that Jim did.

Even in the South, Artie had witnessed lovely young belles spewing anti-Yankee venom from their rosebud lips while at the same time unable to remove their eyes from the young Yankee officer. He once overheard a pair discussing Jim: both had been quite sure that such a fine looking fellow must be a spy for the Confederacy in northern garb. Any man that handsome—as well as such a fine horseman—could _not_ be a money-grubbing, store clerk _Yankee_!

Dismounting carefully in the slow-to-dry quagmire of the street, Artemus entered the mercantile where he flirted with the freckled young postmistress while he mailed his letter. The missive was actually addressed to a schoolteacher in Georgia he had met on a foray in that area in the latter part of the war and with whom he had kept up a sporadic, friendly correspondence. He spent a few minutes looking at some shirts, keeping his eye on the window until he saw Jim and the sheriff part company. With a cheery goodbye to the lady, he exited in time to see Jim make his way down the alley between the hotel and the tailor's shop. Artie loitered a few minutes as though undecided where he wanted to go next. A few minutes later Jim rode out of the alley on his sorrel and headed east. Artemus mounted his own buckskin and rode west, in the direction of the Manwaring property.

He rode slowly once he gained the outskirts of town, not merely because of the still soggy roads. About a mile along, Artemus heard a whistle, and drew his horse to a halt, looking in the direction the sound had emanated. He spotted Jim among a scattering of large rocks, and steered his mount in that direction.

"What brought you to town, Artie?" Jim asked as soon as they were both hidden from view behind the large boulders.

"Had to mail a letter to my dear niece Emily."

Jim's brows rose. "You don't have any brothers or sisters. How could you have a niece?"

"I don't," Artie grinned, "but Major Hannon does. It was an excuse to come to town."

"Good. Have you met a fellow named Doolin out there?"

"Matter of fact, I did, yesterday afternoon. He's Manwaring's ranch manager, or foreman."

"Saw him in the mercantile mailing an interesting package—just the right size to hold a sizeable stack of greenbacks."

"I know. I overheard them talking about it. Manwaring was anxious for it to get shipped today. I even managed to offer to bring it into town myself, hence the story about the letter I needed to post. If not for the rain, I might have been successful. Doolin didn't get the word, and he headed out early, before he could be intercepted."

Jim grimaced. "Too bad. I tried to get a look at the address but could not. You didn't see it…"

Artie was shaking his head. "No. I never saw the package, actually. It could be almost anything, Jim."

"I know. But…"

"But you think it's counterfeit bills to be distributed. Wouldn't Manwaring be taking a hell of a chance, putting it in the U.S. mail like that?"

"Maybe," Jim concurred, reluctantly. "Don't suppose you have found out anything else."

"Only that Manwaring is definitely bitter about the war and its outcome. That could fit quite a large number of southerners—and a few northerners. Not even a hint that he has plans to do anything about it. As soon as the ground dries up some I'm going to do some more exploring. One of the hands told me there are a couple of old houses that belonged to the previous owners of property Manwaring bought over the years. They're used for line shacks, shelter from the weather from time to time."

"Be interesting to know if any are off limits to the regular crew."

"Yeah. But he didn't say anything about that."

Jim pulled off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. He thought about telling Artie about the bad feelings he had experienced regarding this Doolin, but decided against it. He knew Artie respected his hunches, and Artie himself had had a few good ones during their time together. Yet, this one was so… ephemeral and without good reason.

"Colonel Richmond should be back at the train by day after tomorrow."

"I know. I'm going to try to come up with an excuse to ride that direction and be gone for a while. Manwaring has urged me to stay on as long as I want. I'm feeling a bit guilty. He seems to like me."

"And you like him."

"Yeah." Artie looked away. It would not be the first time they had to pursue and apprehend someone they liked. He remembered a Reb from Virginia they had encountered and taken prisoner in the Shenandoah, fellow named Harper. They had both come to like him during the several days they spent together traversing the valley and evading Reb patrols before they returned behind Union lines.

But in the end, they had done their duty and turned Harper over to be sent to a prison camp. A difference existed, however. Harper had been doing his perceived duty to his country, the Confederacy; if Manwaring was manufacturing and distributing bogus money, he was potentially damaging the United States financial base. No war was going on now; at least not one such as the last one. _Men are still dying because of the animosity that continues to exist between former combatants and others. Tim Galvin might have been a victim of that animosity._

"What are you going to do next, Jim?" Artie asked then, after a long silence between them.

Jim shook his head. "I don't know. Keep asking questions, I guess. Miss Wagner in the mercantile told me that Nelson Manwaring once courted a lady here in town. She has since married another man, the gunsmith. I guess I'll try talking to her. No idea what she could tell me."

"It's a good idea to check everything," Artie nodded. "Well, I'd better be going. If I don't see you before then, perhaps we'll meet on the train."

"Take care, Artie. And remember, you can opt out any time."

Artie just grinned as he mounted. He waved and spurred the horse back toward the road.

W*W*W*W*W

Upon returning to the Manwaring ranch, Artemus saw the owner in what appeared to be a very serious conversation with Doolin and two other men near the stable. He nodded to them as he led his horse into the stable, wondering if he should take the chance of going to a part of the building that was closer to them in an attempt to hear their conversation. The matter was taken out of his hands when he realized he was not alone; an older hand was in one of the stalls currying a horse. He turned his own horse over to the cowhand, and strolled to the house, not glancing back at the group.

Once inside, Artemus went to his room, which looked out on the stable area. From behind a curtain, he watched the four. Doolin was gesturing rather strongly and appeared to be disagreeing with something. Manwaring listened, but shook his head just as firmly. Artie got the impression that he was repeating some instructions that Doolin did not like. The other two men appeared to be caught uncomfortably in a minor power struggle. In the end, those two went into the nearby corral to select and saddle mounts while Manwaring and Doolin continued their conversation. After a couple more minutes, while the two men rode off under Doolin's glare, Manwaring turned and strolled toward the house. His second-in-command's gaze burned into his back but he did not notice nor appear to care.

_Interesting._ Sitting down on the bed, Artie changed his muddy boots to his spare pair, his moves automatic as his thoughts dwelt on the scene he had just witnessed. What did it mean? Anything? _Whatever it was about, Doolin didn't like it. I wish I had noticed it from afar and lingered so as to be able to follow those two men._ He had recognized the two as men who were not very talkative when he tried to engage them in a friendly chat while they were stranded in the stable during the rain yesterday. The other man, called Bud, caught inside at the time had been friendly and even garrulous, comparing weather stories. _For that matter, I didn't get the impression that Bud was on very good terms with that pair._

Picking up the muddy boots, he left the room and made his way to the kitchen, where he left the footwear. The cook's helper would clean them and return them upstairs. Artemus then strolled into the front parlor. Marston Manwaring looked up from the newspaper he was reading.

"Did you mail your letter, Major?"

"Yes. Emily will be happy to hear from me." Artie settled into another chair. "She was most unhappy that I felt the need to leave home. I rather think her husband would have liked to come with me, but they have two young children now, and he could not leave them. I would not be surprised, however, that in a few years he moves the family to a better place. Like me, he chafes under the Yankee domination." _All right, Manwaring. I've opened the door. Step inside, or slam it. _He still had very mixed feelings about Jim's insistence regarding the rancher's guilt.

"I am sure it's very unpleasant for most loyal Georgians," Manwaring said soberly, lowering his newspaper to his lap now. "There are times, I must admit," he continued slowly, thoughtfully, "when I regret that I left Georgia. I wish I had been there. I am not sure what I could have done but I surely would have demanded that the state not surrender with the remainder of the Confederacy. After all, Georgia is a sovereign state. They could have gone it alone, independent."

"Then I fervently wish you had been there as well! As much as I admire and revere General Lee, I believe one of the very few errors in judgment he ever made was to accept the nearly unconditional surrender to Grant. I am sure that had he chosen to continue the war, as we mentioned earlier, as a guerilla campaign, the North would have eventually been forced to capitulate and recognize the new country."

Manwaring stared toward the window for a long moment before bringing his gaze back to Artemus. "There are different kinds of guerilla warfare."

Artie frowned as though not comprehending. "Different? How do you mean, sir?"

Before Manwaring could respond, the front door opened and Doolin stood there. The angry mien to his countenance turned to surprise when he saw that Manwaring was not alone. "Oh. Pardon me, Mar."

Manwaring got to his feet, dropping the newspaper to the floor. "Let's go into my study, Hi. You'll excuse us, Major? I have some ranch business to discuss."

"Of course, sir. Of course." Artemus hid his disappointment as the two men headed down the hallway. _So close! He was so close to revealing…_ _What?_ What had Manwaring been on the verge of saying? Would he have confirmed Jim's suspicions of being the mastermind behind the flood of counterfeit notes?

Again the temptation arose to try to eavesdrop on the conversation. He stepped out into the hallway, looking down toward the now closed study door. The lure was great, but Artie fought it. Another door at the end of the hallway opened directly into the kitchen area. The cook or another servant might come through there at any time, without warning. He did not want to be caught snooping.

With a sigh, he went out onto the porch. The sun was bright and warm now, and the ground was drying up. Seeing some hands in the corral, Artemus paused long enough to light a cigar, then strolled out there. The men were watching one of the colored hands who was apparently training a young horse to work with cattle. Three head of steer were also in the corral, and the horse was learning how to cut them off and drive them in specific directions.

Artemus moved alongside another black hired man. "Looks like he knows what he's doing."

The cowboy glanced at him. "Oh, yes sir! Lonny is the best when it comes to showin' a horse what to do. It's like he can talk to them!"

Artie had noticed previously that the Negro hands were cordial and polite to him, but displayed no warmth. _Why should they, when they think I fought for the side that tried to keep them enslaved?_ "Have you worked here long?" he asked then.

"Goin' onto five years now. Me 'n' Lonny, we come together. Used to work down in Texas."

"Do you like it here?"

The man's glance was wary. "Mr. Manwaring, he pays good."

Artie fell silent, watching the action inside the corral. This was a delicate situation. Quite possibly they would be willing to cooperate if they knew his true purpose. That is, if they were aware that Manwaring was doing something illegal, something damaging to the country and that he himself was here to help stop him. If he spoke out of turn, their loyalty to the man who gave them gainful employment might cause them to report him to Manwaring.

_It's not a good idea to get emotionally involved in these situations,_ Artie mused. He could understand Jim's involvement, even if it was misguided. Jim felt responsible for Galvin's death, or at least wanted vengeance for it. Those emotions may or may not have been coloring his belief that Marston Manwaring was responsible.

_Thing is, I'm pretty much in the opposite corner. Although I knew Tim Galvin and can mourn for a good man, I find myself reluctant to accept Manwaring as the guilty party. _Yet Artie also knew that certain events he had witnessed leaned toward Jim's perceptions. The package Doolin mailed for one thing: just the right size to contain a bundle of bogus bills. What had Manwaring been about to say before Doolin burst in? _I've got to find a way to reopen that conversation!_

A more candid chat with the black cowboy did not seem possible right now, especially with the other hands around. While their attention was on the activity inside the corral, someone still might overhear. Perhaps an opportunity would arise to talk to one or both of them later. Turning away from the fence, he saw Hiram Doolin leaving the house, his stride swift and, Artie thought, angry. Whatever he and Manwaring were disagreeing on, it had not been resolved. _Just ranch business?_

Artemus walked back to the house, hoping to find Manwaring in the front room again, but it was vacant. On the chance that Manwaring might reappear, he sat down to read the paper Manwaring had dropped earlier, finding it was a week-old edition of a Denver publication. But the rancher did not return. However, Artemus saw something in the newspaper that he thought would give him an excuse to leave the ranch for a couple of days in order to return to the train and meet with Colonel Richmond and Jim.

W*W*W*W*W

Doubt comes in at the window when inquiry is denied at the door.

Benjamin Jowett (1817-1893), English educator, essayist, translator and classicist

The following morning brought a new surprise for Artie. When he entered the dining room for breakfast, he found Doolin present, along with another man he had never seen before. Both were at the table, and Artie was introduced to the newcomer under his guise of Major Hannon. The third man was Osbert Keyno, whom Manwaring explained was usually addressed as "Doc."

"Not because he's a physician," the rancher smiled, "but because he's so smart."

Artie shook hands with the man and experienced a bit of concern with the way Keyno was scrutinizing him. Had Keyno seen him before, perhaps on the stage? Keyno was blond, his hair starting to gray, hanging in strings over his high forehead. The eyes were a sharp gray-blue, and while he was not an ugly man, Artie decided that few women would call him handsome. Something about the mouth detracted from his looks. He had a rather nasal voice.

Keyno said nothing however, nor did Manwaring explain his presence. He most assuredly did not look like a cowhand, attired in a business suit that was a trifle ill fitting and needed pressing. He struck Artie as the kind of man to whom appearance was not as important as intellect.

Artemus also had the distinct impression that his arrival in the room had interrupted a conversation that all three men were eager to return to. For that reason, he lingered over his meal and engaged in rather inane talk about the weather. He did have an opportunity to bring up the reason why he would have to leave the ranch for a day or two.

"I was looking at the newspaper and saw the name of a man I knew back home. I'm sure it's him—he was a tailor in Georgia, and he appears to have opened a shop in Denver. I want to see him to order a new suit before I head further west. I never had a finer suit of clothes than one I obtained from Jarvis Loman in Athens. I don't know when I might have another opportunity."

"Unless you decide to make your residence in this area," Manwaring smiled.

Artie chuckled. "Yes, sir, that is the truth. I'm wavering, for certain. And perhaps a brief jaunt to Denver might help to clear my mind. I also need to call on a banker as well to make certain that funds are being transferred as I requested. I don't have much, and I want to make sure they aren't lost."

Finally the meal broke up, whereupon Artie was not surprised when Manwaring apologized then ushered the other two men into his study. Frustrated, he wandered out onto the porch to light up a slim cigar, and ponder the situation. Who was this "Doc Keyno"? Where had he been before now? Artie was certain the man had not been here at the main ranch buildings, yet Manwaring had offered no explanation for his sudden appearance at the breakfast table.

_I'm beginning to wonder if Jim isn't right after all. Despite that I like Manwaring and have seen nothing definitive, appearances indicate something is going on here. The package Doolin mailed, this new and sudden—and unexplained—guest… I need to draw Manwaring back into that conversation that was interrupted yesterday._

The weather was fine again, with the sun bright and warm. The only signs of the rainstorm were some rapidly drying puddles here and there. Making a quick decision, Artie tossed his cigar out onto the ground and went back inside the house. He strode down the hallway to the closed door and rapped on it. After a moment he heard an invitation, and opened it.

"Excuse me for interrupting, gentlemen," he said with a genial smile. "I merely wanted to tell Mr. Manwaring that I'm going to take advantage of this beautiful morning and take a ride around the area. Perhaps it will help me make up my mind about settling here once I look over more of your excellent property."

Although Manwaring's countenance had showed some slight annoyance when the door was first opened, he smiled broadly now. "Enjoy yourself, Major. I wish I had time to guide you."

"No matter. I'll just wander. I have a good sense of direction. I won't get lost. I'm sure I'll be back in time for the midday meal."

"Good. Oh, Major, there's one slight warning I will offer."

"Yes?"

"You may come upon an old house north of here, if you travel that direction. It's surrounded by cottonwoods. I would not go into that house. It's quite dangerous. I intended to have it torn down, but never got around to it. Place is literally falling apart on one's head!"

Artie laughed. "Thank you, sir. I will keep that in mind. I may have already seen that house. I plan to ride the opposite direction today."

_Thank you, indeed!_ Artemus smiled as he headed for the stairway to go to his room and change. _I will make a point of finding that house!_

W*W*W*W*W

There is nothing that makes a man suspect much, more than to know little; and, therefore, men should remedy suspicion by procuring to know more, and not to keep their suspicions to smother.  
>—Francis Bacon (1561-1626), English philosopher, statesman and writer<p>

Jim called on Cora Mayne Schiff shortly before noon. It worked out well, because he needed to replenish the ammunition for his rifle, and when he stepped into the gunsmith's shop a few doors down from the sheriff's office, Mrs. Schiff was behind the counter apparently working on some ledger books. She was a slender, attractive woman with dark shiny hair and warm brown eyes. Upon introducing himself, she knew immediately who he was.

"You are investigating the death of that poor man who was found in the river."

"Yes, ma'am. He was an agent of the United States government, as am I. I wonder if you mind talking to me."

She seemed surprised. "What about?"

"Nelson Manwaring."

"Oh." Her sigh was deep. "I imagine you heard I was affianced to him at one time."

"Yes, and I was hoping you could tell me about him—and his brother."

She shook her head in obvious bemusement. "I really didn't know him that well. I know that sounds surprising, considering I agreed to marry him. But I was seventeen at the time, Mr. West. Two other girls—friends and rivals—had gotten engaged to young men who were heading east to enlist, and although their beaus were Union men like my family, somehow it seemed more exciting—and romantic—that Nelson was going to join the Rebel army."

"I understand," Jim nodded. "I know of a few of those hasty romances that occurred in the area from which I enlisted." He remembered a couple of young ladies who would happily have married him if he had been so inclined despite he had been just nineteen at the time.

"I don't know what I would have done if Nelson had returned," she said with a rueful shake of her head. "Almost as soon as he rode off, I was regretting my hasty decision. I cannot say I was relieved when I heard of his death. But it certainly freed me from having to make a hard choice!"

"What was he like?"

"Oh, handsome enough. And like his brother, he was quite a fire-eater where the southern cause was concerned. When I visited at the ranch, both he and his brother tried their best to convert my ideas. I don't think Mr. Manwaring—Marston—was at all thrilled that Nelson might marry a Unionist's daughter!"

"Was Nelson in love with you?"

"I… like to think so," she smiled. "He always chose me at the local play parties and socials. I must say I enjoyed his company. But I was young and really just entering the social whirl. My two friends and I had quite a competition going for the gentlemen in the area so capturing the heir to the largest ranch was quite a coup. And even though I lost Nelson, I still ended up marrying before either of them did, because my Henry returned home after being wounded at the battle before Atlanta. By then I knew Nelson wasn't coming back."

Jim thought a moment before speaking. "Did Marston Manwaring express any… objections, when you married Mr. Schiff?"

She cocked her head. "Now that you mention it, I don't think he was very happy with me. I'm afraid I did not think about it very much. This may sound harsh, but I know I was not in love with Nelson, not the way I love Henry. I am very sorry Nelson died, but I believe I spent a decent period of mourning. I returned the ring Nelson gave me to his brother. It belonged to their grandmother."

"What do you know about Mr. Manwaring's current political beliefs?"

"Well, not too much, except I do know Henry was disturbed when Mr. Manwaring wanted him to order a fairly large amount of ammunition a couple of years ago."

"Did he obtain the ammunition?"

"No. Henry attempted to place the order but the manufacturer said they could not sell that much to a civilian without the consent of the Army. Seems the Army at that time needed all they could get to deal with the war and the Indians."

"I don't suppose Mr. Manwaring indicated why he wanted the ammunition."

"No, I don't recall that at all." She gazed at Jim. "Do you think Mr. Manwaring is doing something… illegal?"

He met her gaze. "What do you think?"

Cora Schiff sighed. "I really don't know. I know he's quite respected in this area. But my father always said that Marston Manwaring had too much hate in him, especially after Nelson was killed. But Papa never liked him at all. Not even when he first came to this area. Papa certainly didn't cotton to me marrying into that family!"

Jim noticed how she used the past tense. "Is your father still alive?"

"No, he passed away a few months ago. My brother runs the ranch. It's out on the south boundary of the Manwaring property. I think perhaps one of the reasons Papa distrusted Mr. Manwaring was because of the way Mr. Manwaring was constantly badgering him to sell to him. And I guess he's doing the same to Jack."

"Do you think your brother would mind if I called on him?"

"Not at all. I don't know if you knew this, but Mr. Galvin visited Jack a couple of days before he was killed."

W*W*W*W*W

What was amazing was how it all came back so easily. Artie thought about this as he rode casually through the vast holdings of Marston Manwaring. _All the subtlety, the subterfuge, the caution, the boldness, and the artifice... Jim and I used those tactics so frequently when we roamed through enemy territory. How many times did we pull the ruse of me being a southerner with Jim my Yankee prisoner? And it worked every time! Plus the instances where we were simply travelers, perhaps trying to get home, casually riding out in the open for all to see…_

That was the tactic he was using now. Manwaring had said the "dangerous" house was to the north, so he deliberately rode south, and covered a fairly long distance before beginning to veer in a circle that would carry him northward. The large size of the ranch would play well eventually, if it became necessary to explain the length of time he was away from the house. Despite his claim of having a good sense of direction, he could ruefully state that "sense" had deserted him and he got lost.

About two hours later he halted the buckskin on a rise overlooking a house surrounded by cottonwoods. A stream flowed nearby. Once, he mused, it had been quite a lovely home. Signs of both a vegetable and a flower garden were near the house, which was single-story but on the small side. Probably not more than four or five rooms all told. It did look a little decrepit, but nowhere near being ready to fall down.

Dismounting, Artemus led the horse a little ways down the back of the rise and tethered it to a shrub, then climbed back to the summit, where he settled down behind a thick bush and watched. He did not have to wait long. Within about twenty minutes, a man emerged from the house and strode toward a building in the rear. Putting the spyglass he had brought from his saddlebag to his eye, Artie recognized one of the two men he had seen with Manwaring and Doolin when they appeared to be having a disagreement.

The man entered the barnlike structure and came out leading a horse, which he mounted and headed south, toward the main ranch. Artie was tempted to follow him, but opted to stay, and within a half hour was rewarded when he spotted Doc Keyno come out of the house with a man Artie had not seen before. Keyno was in his shirtsleeves, with ink guards at the cuffs. The two talked for several minutes, then Keyno returned to the house while the other man went to the barn. Like the first man, he came out with a saddled horse, but when he mounted, he rode east.

_So Keyno must have headed out here soon after I rode off. Why? What does he do here? And why the ink guards, the kind of protection printers often used? _That answer seemed obvious, however reluctant Artemus was to accept it. _Looks like I'm going to have to eat the whole crow, feathers and all._ He sighed inwardly. Jim had been right.

The explanation had to be that the money was being printed in that old house. Artie would have liked to convince himself that Manwaring did not know about it, but circumstances argued strongly against that. One was the fact that Keyno had been a guest at the main house and engaged in a conference with Manwaring. The other, of course, was the warning Manwaring had offered against the "dangerous" house.

As much as Artemus would have liked to have gotten closer to the house, even entered it, he knew that was foolhardy right now. Although he had seen two men leave, that did not mean that others were not inside. Keyno probably needed help with his task, whatever it was, not to mention guards. It was not likely that Manwaring left this site unprotected.

He made his way back to his horse and as he had before, took a circuitous route so that he would return to the main house from the south. He paid special attention to his surroundings so he could mention what he saw to Manwaring, if that became necessary or wise. But his main concern was how he could get this newest knowledge to Jim West. He knew he might have to wait until they met the colonel on the train.

W*W*W*W*W

Jack Mayne was older than his sister, but like her, he was slender with dark brown hair and brown eyes. He welcomed the Secret Service agent and did not seem to be very surprised with the visit. In the tidy but not overly large house, Mayne introduced Jim to his petite blonde wife, obviously midway through a pregnancy, and their toddler son who hid behind his father's legs and peered out with big brown eyes.

When Mrs. Mayne served coffee and they were comfortable in the front room, Jim explained his purpose. "Do you remember what Tim Galvin said to you?"

"He mostly asked questions and seemed real interested in what I told him. Fact is, that's why I've been wondering why no one came to talk to me after his death."

"Go on," Jim urged quietly; he was extremely anxious to hear what Mayne had to say,

"He wanted to know about Dieterman's place, which is the next one south of here. Or it was the Dieterman place. Manwaring took it over after poor old Dieterman and his wife died, worn down by the harassment I'd say."

"Harassment?"

"Well, Manwaring has a way of 'bothering' folks without doing anything against the law—at least not something provable. Fences knocked down, his cattle straying into pasture that maybe you've been saving to fatten up cattle for market. Dead heifer spoiling a watering hole. Things like that."

"Are those things happening to you?"

"Yep. Though maybe not as bad as it was for Dieterman, because my best grazing lands and springs are on the north side of my property, away from Manwaring's line. Only way his cattle can get to my good pastureland is for his men to drive them there—and so far that hasn't happened. Still, I get downed fences and Manwaring beef on my land. My boys just shove 'em back and fix the fences. I've told Sheriff Rivers, but there's no proof it was anything but accidental."

"And this is what you told Galvin?"

"Part of it. The other is about the old Dieterman house. "

"What about it?"

"Someone is living there."

Jim frowned. "I understood those old places were being used as line shacks."

"Yeah, I reckon they are. But I'm pretty sure someone is there full time, day and night. Not just hands caught out in the weather. The house is only about a quarter of a mile from my property line, and there's a hill that you can see it from. A couple of my men were out looking for a wolf a while back. They camped out that way, and saw lights in the house at night. Next morning, they could see men coming in and out—men that didn't look like cowhands. I got curious enough to go see for myself, and I had to agree. Someone is living there—and there's quite a bit of traffic to and from the place. Saw a wagon bring some big crates of something heavy."

Jim was silent a long moment, sipping his coffee, his gaze absently on the little boy who was now on Mayne's lap, half asleep against his father's curled arm. Did this information mean anything? Manwaring's spread was a large one and the possibility existed that some men used this old house as a headquarters. Yet from what Artie understood from the men he talked to, that was not the case; the old houses were only temporary shelters.

"Did Galvin indicate he was going to investigate the Dieterman house?" he asked then.

Mayne frowned, shook his head. "Not in so many words. He did ask me specific directions, but when he left here, he appeared to be heading back toward town. I didn't see him after that, and later heard he was found dead."

Jim departed shortly, and like Galvin had, headed to town. He wanted to take a look at the old Dieterman house, but knew nighttime would be best. He wished he had a way to get word to Artie, but unless his friend appeared in town, that seemed unlikely. They would meet tomorrow night at the train—if Artemus figured out a good excuse to leave the Manwaring place temporarily—but precious time would be lost.

By the time he reached town, Jim had made up his mind that he had to do some nighttime exploring on his own. He lingered in town, had supper, spent some time in the saloon under the glare of the blacksmith who at least did not attempt to cause further problems, and finally went to his hotel room.

Seeing Cooley caused Jim to wonder why that had been the only assault against him. He had truly expected other attempts on his life. He had been out in the open quite a bit and not once did he even sense danger might be near. That did not make a lot of sense… unless he was completely wrong about the motive for Tim's death. Or else Manwaring—or whoever was behind all of this—did not want to exacerbate the situation.

_Could it all be a false alarm? Even the initial indications that the counterfeit money is coming from this area? Had an opportunistic bandit killed Tim?_ No. Jim shook his head in the darkness of the room. Tim Galvin had been too intelligent a man to follow false leads. Something about that old Dieterman house, something he saw or encountered there, that had been the motive for his murder. Jim was sure of that. _And now I have to go find out what it was._

W*W*W*W*W

The lights of the Wanderer shone as a beacon of welcome to Artemus as he rode across the field toward the rail siding. He was tired after a fairly long ride, and a chance to relax without having to keep up his pose as Major Palmer Hannon was something to look forward to. He wished he could shave the beard. He did not mind wearing false whiskers in a role, but had always felt uncomfortable when not clean-shaven.

He tied off the buckskin at the rear platform, deciding he would take a few minutes to rest and talk to Jim and the colonel before putting it in the car for the night. Climbing the stairs he rapped on the door then opened it. Colonel Richmond was rising from the sofa.

"Artemus! You made it. Good to see you."

Artemus shook the extended hand. "I had to tell some tall tales to get away from Manwaring's, but I think he bought it. Where's Jim?"

Richmond's eyes widened. "I actually thought you two might be coming together."

"You mean he's not here yet? I went through Carvers Landing and didn't see him, so I thought he must already be on his way out here."

Now the colonel's eyes clouded with concern. "When did you see him last?"

"Day before yesterday. As we expected, it hasn't been easy for us to get together. It's been mostly opportunistic."

"I understand. Well, he'll likely be along. Have you eaten? I'm not much of a cook, but as you may remember, I can put together a pretty decent stew. I've got a pot on the stove."

Artie grinned briefly. "I do remember. Tell you what, let me get my horse settled, then we can talk while I eat."

By the time Artemus related all that had occurred and what he had learned over the last few days, the colonel's face was grim. "So it appears Jim and Galvin were correct. Manwaring is involved."

"I think so," Artie nodded. "I didn't want to believe it, but all the signs are pointing that way. The questions are where and how. Oh, I didn't mention, yesterday morning I met a new character. I'm not sure how he fits in, but he's definitely not a cowhand. Name of Osbert Keyno, called Doc. You know him?" Artie saw the way Richmond's face changed.

"Doc Keyno! Artemus, he's a top expert at counterfeiting, one of the best ever at engraving counterfeit plates. As a matter of fact, a few months ago, on his very first assignment with the department, Jim arrested Keyno. We had all the proof we needed to send him up for a long stretch, but he escaped custody just a couple of weeks later. A clever and slippery man."

"Well," Artie breathed, "that would seem to seal it. Manwaring is behind—or at least involved in—the counterfeiting." He knew the disappointment he was experiencing was unreasonable, but the fact was he had continued to harbor a faint hope that Marston Manwaring was not involved despite the growing evidence.

Richmond had been watching him. "You like the man."

"Yeah. I think under other circumstances, we could have been great friends."

"Too bad. But I'm afraid that happens in this business. It's a good idea to keep yourself uninvolved as much as possible."

"I'm beginning to realize that. I suppose that is why Jim is so successful."

The colonel smiled slightly. "He does usually manage to keep himself detached. You know, sometimes I can't figure him out, Artemus."

"Who can?"

"I mean I don't know if he does this job—takes the chances he does—because he believes he's invincible, or because he doesn't really care whether he lives or dies."

Artie fell silent, looking at the glass of red wine he held as they sat in the varnish car, the meal finished. He knew exactly what Richmond was saying. How many times during their work together had he despaired for Jim's safety because of the headlong risks the younger man took? _Sometimes I could talk him out of it, reason with him, but not always. However, I do think that by the end of the war, he was starting to be a little more mindful…_

"Maybe he needs my strong hand," he said aloud.

Richmond cocked an eyebrow. "I seem to recall you taking a few chances as well."

Artie chuckled. "Yes, but they were usually _reasoned_ chances, something I thought about and often that we both discussed. Sometimes it is necessary to simply jump in feet first. Problem is, Jim was often inclined to dive in head first."

"Something else, Artemus, that I should mention and that you should be aware of. I'm sure you knew this during the war, but the individual is not as important as the results."

Artemus met the colonel's grim eyes. "You mean that if Jim is in trouble, I should ignore it, if it means that attempting to rescue him would jeopardize the conclusion of this counterfeiting business."

"Exactly. Jim realizes that, as did Tim Galvin. It's not easy, as even Jim is becoming aware—and I know he understood that during the war. The two of you managed to complete your assignments and keep each other safe. But that may not always to be the case. We cannot allow these bogus bills to destroy the economy of the country, Artemus."

"I understand, sir. Let's hope it doesn't come to that situation."

The colonel looked toward the closed door at the end of the car. "Where is he?"

Now all Artemus could do was shake his head. Jim was not one to miss an appointment, especially one as important as this one, except under the direst circumstances. _Such as if he is no longer alive._ That chilling thought caused Artemus to put his glass aside and get to his feet. "Maybe I should ride back…"

Richmond rose. "No. Not yet. You told Manwaring you wouldn't be back until tomorrow evening."

"But Jim may need…"

The colonel shook his head firmly. "As I just said, there comes a time when the job is more important."

Slowly Artemus sank back onto the sofa, the import of the colonel's earlier words sinking in thoroughly now. If Manwaring's scheme succeeded, the United States could be thrown into chaos. Still recovering from the divisive split that took so many lives and destroyed so much property, for the public to be flooded with fake currency, shaking the thin thread of confidence that currently existed…. One man's life did not mean much in the face of that looming disaster. Not even Jim West's.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

There is no rule more invariable than that we are paid for our suspicions by finding what we suspect.

—Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862), American author and naturalist

"I had no idea we would meet again like this. In fact, I rather hoped I would never see you again."

Jim stared silently at the man with the scrunched up face who was standing before him, shaking his head, almost as if sad to see his foe in such a perilous and helpless situation. Doc Keyno was a strange man. Jim had come to know him fairly well in the daylong ride they had taken together to escort Keyno to the jail in Abilene a few months ago.

Keyno sighed and continued. "I am quite upset that Mr. Manwaring feels it necessary to dispose of you. Believe me, Mr. West, I abhor violence. I believe I told you that previously."

Jim remained mute, but he remembered clearly how quietly Keyno had surrendered when apprehended in that old deserted house in the Oklahoma Territory. Seemed he preferred to use such places as his headquarters, if this ranch house was any indication. Or perhaps circumstances made it so. In any case, Jim had not been all that surprised to learn a few weeks after the arrest that Keyno had escaped, pretty much walking out of jail unmolested, having used his wits rather than force.

With an audible sigh, Keyno crossed the room and sat down on the stool by a high desk placed near a window, his back to the prisoner. Jim could not see all that was on that desk from his position, noticing some bottles, probably containing acid, and apparently styluses. He had no doubt Keyno was working on another etching, preparing a plate for a new government bill to be printed.

Jim strained against the ropes on his wrists again, found them as secure as they had been from the first time he tried upon being bound night before last. Remembering the turn of events caused a surge of helpless anger. He had not been careless. But he definitely had been unlucky.

He had quietly left his hotel room well after midnight on the day after visiting Mayne, when the only activity in town was at the saloons. Securing his horse from the hotel stable had been easy; the young hostler lived and slept elsewhere. He had also been able to leave town without encountering any other person, using the main road until he cut off toward the southern portion of the Mayne property.

Jack Mayne had told him precisely where to find the house, and given him permission to cross his land if necessary. Jim had stationed himself on that rise Jack had described to observe the house in the distance for quite some time before heading out on foot toward it. Other than a thin stream of smoke from the chimney and the glow of lamps through the windows, he had not noticed anyone moving about. All was dark and quiet as he approached in the small hours of the morning.

His plan had been to first try to peer through the windows, which were fairly low to the ground on the first floor, and he had just neared one at the back of the house when abruptly the backdoor opened. The man who emerged had obviously just climbed out of bed with the need to visit the outhouse, pulling his trousers and boots on, and nothing else—except he held a pistol in his hand. Pure happenstance had caused Jim's approach to coincide with that man's call of nature.

Seeing the intruder, the man lifted his weapon—apparently brought as a matter of habit and caution—and caught off guard and in the open, with nowhere to seek shelter, Jim had no choice but to lift his hands and surrender. The man, whom Jim subsequently learned was called Buck, yelled for assistance and three others in similar states of half-dress but armed had emerged.

They had taken him inside, where Jim saw Doc Keyno for the first time, clad in a nightshirt, his hair disheveled—and astonished to see and identify the intruder. "West! They never told me you were in the area!" Doc had exclaimed.

"The surprise is mutual," Jim had replied dryly.

The four men wanted to kill the agent but Doc argued against it and insisted that Mr. Manwaring be informed. So Jim had been bound securely to the chair in the front room of the old house. Except for the times when he had been released long enough to eat and visit the outhouse, under guard, that was where he had been for nearly two days now.

Marston Manwaring and his second in command, Hi Doolin had appeared around midday that first day. Doolin had argued for immediate death as well, insisting that holding West for long was inviting disaster. Kill him and throw him in the river, just like the other one. Manwaring had been adamant, however. He insisted that the murder of another federal agent would bring more attention to the area—and themselves. They would hold West until a scheme could be devised where by it would appeared he died in an accident.

"He'll be missed!" Doolin argued. "Someone will come looking for him!"

"Not immediately," Manwaring had assured his second-in-command. "He's here alone. It'll be awhile before anyone looks for him. Rivers might fret if he notices, but he's not going to raise any big fuss."

Those words had reassured Jim. Manwaring harbored no suspicions about Major Palmer Hannon, it appeared. Even if Artie had not missed him during that first day—and there was no reason why he would or should because they did not have regular meetings set up— he would certainly have noticed his absence at the train last night. The next question would be what could Artie do about it?

W*W*W*W*W

_Audendo magnus tegitur timor._

[By audacity, great fears are concealed.]

_Pharsalia (IV, 702)_, Lucanus (Marcus Annaeus Lucan; fl. 39-65), last of Roman epic poets 

"Mr. Manwaring? Sir, I have been doing a lot of thinking."

"Have you, Major? What about?"

They were seated in Manwaring's living room after an excellent midday meal. Artie waved the cigar he had lit. "I'm impressed by your success here. Now I know I can never rival you, but I think that I could be quite a good neighbor. I asked the banker in Denver to hold my funds while I look for property to purchase."

"I'm glad to hear that, Major Hannon. It will be good to have someone living nearby who shares similar political views."

Artie smiled. "I think that's part of what convinced me. I'm sure that if I continued on to Oregon or Washington, I'd be surrounded by damn Yankees. Of course, I realized that when I left Georgia, but I was somewhat resigned to it. Now, however, I have an opportunity to be friend and neighbor to a man like you. And perhaps help you."

"Help me?"

Artemus met the rancher's gaze squarely. "Mr. Manwaring, the other day you started to tell me something. Something about your plans to… well, perhaps avenge the South's loss, and take back our heritage. I don't know what those plans are, of course, but I want to tell you that I am very interested."

Manwaring's eyes fastened on him for a long moment, shifted to a window for a few seconds, then came back to Artie. "Yes, I was on the verge of telling you about my plans. However, there have been some… recent events, and I'm not entirely certain I want to involve you at this point."

Artie frowned deeply. "I don't understand, sir. 'In for a penny, in for a pound.' Isn't that how the old saying goes? I am not a man who believes in halfway participation. I did not operate in that manner during the war, or even prior to it. I am all for restoring the glory that was our southern society, no matter what methods are required." He knew he had to keep control of himself now, to hide any emotions… especially if Manwaring told him what he feared to hear: that Jim West had been killed.

"I believe you, Major Hannon. I believe you. And I also feel I can trust you. It's been a while since I've felt that way about any man, especially one I've just met."

"Thank you, sir. May I say I have experienced a certain connection with you from the moment we met. I felt we were men with the same thoughts, the same goals." Artie kept his gaze direct, calling on all his skills as an actor to hide the turmoil inside him. Not only was he fearful about Jim West's fate but as well he had to suppress his sense that he was betraying a friend here. Manwaring had plans to ruin the country!

Again Manwaring was silent for a few seconds. Then he nodded sharply, as though making up his mind. "Major, I am instituting a scheme that will send the government of the United States into financial turmoil."

"Indeed?" Artie displayed amazement and anticipation.

"While the government in Washington is dealing with this crisis, it will be a simple matter to reorganize and rally the southern population back to the Cause. We'll be much stronger, better organized, when and if Washington attempts to do anything about it."

"I must say that sounds marvelous, sir. But how? The federal government is a strong institution…"

"Counterfeit money, Major. I am producing federal specie that is so incredibly like the real thing, no one will be aware until it's much too late. I've already experimented, passing the bills in several large cities. Very few have been noticed. However, that said, I'm afraid that the government might have become suspicious. They sent an agent to spy in this area."

"Oh? I'm sure you were able to… deal with him."

Now Manwaring smiled in grim satisfaction. "That one will trouble us no more. But there's another one who nosed around after the first one… was handled. He spoke to me on his initial visit, and seemed satisfied, leaving the area. He has since come back. Although he did not return to question me, I'm afraid he stumbled onto the premises where the work is being done."

"And you… handled him as well?" Artie realized that one fist was clenching as it rested on the arm of his chair. He forced it to relax.

"At the moment he is a prisoner. I am not stupid enough to allow another federal agent to be killed so blatantly. I plan to devise an accident, perhaps a landslide."

"Clever." Hiding his relief was almost more difficult than disguising his fears. Jim was alive, at least.

Manwaring cocked his head slightly. "Talk of murder does not seem to bother you, Major?"

Artie's gaze was steely. "I don't consider it 'murder,' Mr. Manwaring. This is war, is it not?"

"It _is _war, Major. In war one takes whatever steps necessary against the enemy."

Artie glanced toward the front door. "Is the agent here…?"

"No, no. Most of the men I have working here are simply what they appear to be, working cowhands. They have no idea what's going on, and I'm sure at least a few would not approve. No, I have this fellow held at one of the old ranch houses. Where the printing is being done, as a matter of fact."

"I wonder if he's the fellow I saw in town," Artie mused. "Slim, good-looking chap? Pretty young."

"Could be. That fits him. Name of West. The first time, he came out here twice, but I rather thought I convinced him I had no knowledge of this fellow Galvin's death, as he had not come back to talk to me this time. However, he was discovered sneaking around the house, and fortunately caught."

"Fortunate, indeed! I think you are living under a lucky star in this venture, Mr. Manwaring. It is meant to be."

"That's exactly how I feel," Manwaring preened. "I cannot fail. I'll have enough currency printed in about two weeks to flood the major cities in short order. I have been in contact with several men who are willing and ready to assist in the next step, retaking southern states from the federal government. I'm quite certain that once the runs on the banks begin, troops will be pulled back into the northern cities to quell the inevitable riots, simplifying our work."

"Mr. Manwaring, I am in awe. In fact, I must be under that same lucky star, and it brought me to you! My excitement in this venture is hard to explain. I want to know more details."

"Of course. And you'll have them. Now, how would you like to see the center of our activities? I think you'll be impressed by the efficiency of the printing plant I have set up."

Artie rose as Manwaring did. "I would like nothing more, sir! This is splendid! For the first time in years, I have hope again!" _I especially have hope now that I know Jim West is alive!_

W*W*W*W*W

Jim heard the approach of horses at the same moment Doc Keyno did. Doc lifted his head from his work for a moment and looked toward the door, but did not move, quickly returning his attention to the task. He knew, as Jim did, that men were outside on guard and would have stopped anyone who was not supposed to be in the area. None of the guards were inside at the moment; because Doc Keyno claimed that they distracted him while he worked, Doolin had ordered the men to stay outside as much as possible.

The sounds of the horses approached close to the house, thus Jim was not surprised that only a few moments elapsed when Marston Manwaring pushed in through the front door. He hid his astonishment—and delight—when Artemus Gordon followed Manwaring inside. "Doc," Manwaring called, "you remember my houseguest, Major Hannon."

Jim knew that Keyno disliked being interrupted, but the engraver also knew who was paying him. Pushing his eyeshade off and laying it on his work desk, he slipped off the stool. "Certainly. Welcome, Major. I'm assuming that because you are in Mr. Manwaring's company, you are a welcome visitor."

Artemus chuckled. "I hope so, Mr. Keyno." He had thrown one glance toward Jim, but knew that having been warned of the prisoner, he should not display too much surprise or even interest. Jim was unshaven and disheveled, but other than a bruise on his cheek, appeared to be well.

"Indeed," Manwaring beamed, "the major is entirely sympathetic to our cause, Doc, and enthusiastic. I think his participation can only be a boon to our future success."

Jim kept his gaze down, unsure if he would be able to disguise the sense of triumph he was feeling. Artie had sold it! Not that that was too much of a surprise. Jim had witnessed numerous instances in the past when Artemus Gordon was able to sell ice to Eskimos, so to speak. With his acting abilities, along with his knack for disguise, he had been able to hoodwink many of the enemy—and occasionally friends—with his poses.

Now that Artie knew the location where the printing of the bogus money was being done, he could notify Colonel Richmond and the army could close in. _Just so Artie doesn't get it into his head that he has to rescue me first. I hope the colonel explained to him how the department works. One man is not all that important in the broad scheme of things. What counts is protecting the country._

Manwaring led Artemus through a door behind where Jim's chair was located, and proudly showed off his printing presses, as well as samples of the bills he had printed. They were waiting now, he said, for Keyno to finish engraving a plate to reproduce one-hundred-dollar bills. Many counterfeiters, he boasted, produced a single bill, or two at the most. He was printing copies of almost every type of currency the United States government distributed from their mints, particularly the ones used in day-to-day business transactions.

"With so many varieties out there, a massive flood on one perfectly coordinated date, it will not only delay any suspicion for awhile, but once the fake money is discovered, it will be impossible to pull them all from circulation. Citizens will be making runs on banks in a panic. The entire economy will collapse—while the South is rising again."

"Marvelous," Artie murmured admiringly. "Mr. Manwaring, you are a genius. Yes, indeed! A genius!" _Only you made the huge mistake of "testing" the bills by putting some in circulation, and alerting the federal government._ Although Manwaring was aware that agents were investigating the possibility that the bills originated in this area, he did not appear to realize that he could actually be foiled.

Marston Manwaring beamed under the praise as he continued to explain his methods and plans, relating how he had encountered Doc Keyno a few months earlier when the engraver was an escapee from federal custody. "I quickly realized I had a virtual goldmine in my hands. Doc was quite open about what his 'crimes' were, but I did not see them as such. I saw talents as a path to victory."

"You are so extremely clever," Artie enthused. "Another man might have simply turned him in to the authorities. Tell me, is Keyno southern?"

Manwaring shrugged. "I actually have no idea. All I know about him is that he relishes the opportunity to outwit the government—and it doesn't seem to matter to him which government!" He chuckled. "What's truly ironic is that the young man bound to the chair in there is the one who arrested him sometime back and caused Keyno to be incarcerated. Now Doc is going to be able to get his revenge."

They reentered the first room, where Doc was again bent over his work desk. Artie glanced quickly at Jim, and caught his eye. Turning away, he wondered what he was seeing in the younger man's gaze. Almost appeared to be asking or demanding something. _What? Help? Jim knows I will help him as soon as I can. And I have an idea about how to do that._

Yet he thought it odd that Jim would be making such a request. They had not talked much about eventualities in this situation, but during the war it was a given that if one got into trouble, the other would do whatever was necessary to assist him out of that difficulty. That had occurred a number of times as they worked together to further the Union cause…

Abruptly Artemus Gordon remembered what he had discussed with the colonel, and all his willpower was required to prevent himself from turning and glaring at the bound man. _He can't possibly think I'll simply abandon him for the good of the cause without at least trying!_ That was something he and Jim West had occasionally talked about during their long rides, or the dark uncomfortable nights as they worked their way to a new assignment to gain information regarding the enemy movements, or perhaps to rescue some Union men now in Confederate hands. They had discussed how the moment might arise when gaining the needed information, or saving a group of men, would be more important than the individual.

Artie had often thanked providence that although that event had loomed where such a decision might have to be made, it had never happened. The situation had been tight more than once, but each time through their own skills or just pure happenstance and luck, they had accomplished their mission without having to make that judgment concerning the life of the other man.

"Major Hannon?" Manwaring was standing near the front door, holding it partially open.

Artie laughed. "I beg your pardon, sir. I'm afraid I was lost in reverie, remembering life as it once was and how now we may see it again!"

Manwaring smiled indulgently. "I understand. I often have those thoughts myself. I look forward to returning to Georgia, to those glorious days again. Doc?" The man at the desk turned his head to look toward them. "Be sure to send word when the plates are ready."

Keyno only nodded, and Manwaring led the way out the door. Artie threw one more glance at Jim, wishing they could discuss this situation. That of course was impossible. _I'm going to have to do what needs to be done. Jim may chew me out later—if I'm successful. And if I'm not successful… well, it won't make any difference to either of us!_

As they mounted their horses again, Artemus looked back at the house. "That's quite a sturdy structure, sir. For one of which I was warned not to approach for fear it might fall on my head!" He was grinning widely,

Manwaring laughed aloud. "Well, you realize, of course, that at that time I did not want you wandering into something that was… well… none of your concern."

"I do, sir. I cannot express my gratitude deeply enough that you have chosen to take me into your confidence, to allow me to share in this glorious venture. Whatever poor funds I possess are at your disposal, as well as my person." Artie looked back at the house again as they started riding. "How did you come to acquire such a fine structure, if I may ask?"

"It was built by the previous owner, an old fellow named Dieterman. I'm told he came here with his wife some years ago. They both died a couple of years ago and I managed to acquire the place"

Artie nodded. "I see." _Now I have a bit more information to augment my plans. I just have to find the right time to implement them._

W*W*W*W*W

Although buoyed by Artie's success, life continued to be miserable for James West. He was a little surprised when Doc Keyno suggested that the prisoner be moved to an unused small room on the second floor where he would not need to be tied up, a suggestion that was quickly refused by Hiram Doolin, to whom Keyno spoke when the second-in-command came by to check on progress. "We have no need to pamper the bastard," Doolin growled. "I prefer to keep him where we can see him."

After sitting in the confined position for hours, each time he was released to eat or be taken to the outhouse, Jim's muscles were stiffer and he was less steady on his feet; it grew worse as time went on. It had happened the morning before Artemus showed up, when after being pulled off the chair he staggered and bumped into one of the men escorting him. That man had been quick to react, knocking Jim to the floor with a blow to the face. Although Jim tried mightily to keep his balance the next time he was allowed some movement, he found it almost impossible, particularly because his guards were trying to hurry him along.

This morning he tripped and fell flat as they were heading back toward the house, and one irked guard planted a boot toe into his side, cursing and demanding he get to his feet. His own temper frayed by the treatment he had received, along with his own helplessness, Jim had managed to scramble to his feet and tackle that man. It didn't last long, partially because of his weakness. Ordinarily, he could have handled two men with ease. But the second man had joined the fray and between the two, Jim was subdued, battered some more, and taken back into the house. He was feeling those bruises, especially one on his chest where the rope that secured him to the back of the chair was tied tightly.

He knew he had erred, had allowed his temper to take control. But Jim also knew that he might have inadvertently found the route to escape. He had to allow these men, his guards, to believe he had now been subjugated, that their brutality had crushed his spirit. The ploy had worked before, when he had been captured by a Reb patrol under the command of an arrogant lieutenant, who preferred to believe the Yankee was spiritless and thus harmless. Once the gray-clad soldiers considered their prisoner under their complete control, their vigilance relaxed. Captain West then engineered an escape.

_I can do that again. It'll take a little longer now, but the beating today will help further their notion that I'm defeated. Artie knows that he now has to get word to Colonel Richmond and arrange for the army to move in. The colonel will tell him that my safety is not as crucial as that of the nation. And that's how it should be. Must be._

The guards continued to remain outside for most of the time, coming in only to prepare the meals, which they seemed to take turns doing. None were particularly excellent cooks, but the food was edible. Doc did not seem to mind. He usually ate quickly and went back to his desk. Eating almost seemed to be an inconvenience for him at times, as was sleeping. He worked better in daylight, he told Jim, to whom he sometimes directed remarks but usually did not further respond if Jim tried to start a conversation. However, he did work by lamplight for a while each evening, perhaps because of deadlines imposed by Manwaring.

Jim was unsure what the guards did outside, but he knew that Doc had complained to Doolin about a noisy poker game that had occurred in the next room and distracted him. So perhaps they were out in one of the other buildings carrying on a game. He knew by the shadows he could see through the window that the afternoon hour was growing late. Whoever's turn it was to cook would be coming in soon.

Doc abruptly rose from his stool and came toward Jim. "Do you want a drink of water?" When Jim nodded, Keyno went off to the other room and came back with a dripping ladle of water. He held it so Jim could drink, which he did thirstily.

"Thank you, Doc."

Keyno's face scrunched up even more than usual. "I don't know why you have to be tied up like this. That room upstairs is very secure."

"Why are you doing this, Doc? Working with Manwaring, I mean. You're not southern. I believe you told me you were from Pennsylvania and your father was a staunch abolitionist."

Doc shrugged. "I have this one talent—a talent for which it is difficult sometimes to find anyone who will pay me to use."

Jim shook his head slightly. "I don't believe that. About having the one talent, I mean. You are an artist, Doc. You could have applied that talent elsewhere."

Now the strange man smiled. "Perhaps I like the challenge. Anyone can paint a Mona Lisa or design a building. I am deceiving the federal government! I always did like to take the different path. Just like you."

"Me! What do you mean?"

"Why are you a federal agent?"

Jim had to smile slightly now. "I guess I have a talent for it."

"Exactly. Whatever became of the fellow you worked with during the war?"

The query surprised Jim, but then he remembered now that on the long trek to deliver Doc Keyno into custody he had told the prisoner some things about his and Artie's exploits during the war. "I'm not sure where he is. He went back to his former profession."

"Actor, wasn't it?" Keyno nodded with satisfaction. He started to turn back to his desk, but paused "Do behave yourself, Mr. West. These are men who do not like law officers. Don't give them an excuse to abuse you. They don't like playing nursemaid to you, Mr. West."

Jim wished he could ask further about the interest in his former partner, but Keyno went back to his work and Jim knew any queries would be ignored. He had not liked the gleam in Doc's eyes. The man was completely unpredictable.

W*W*W*W*W

It is not being deceived, but undeceived, that renders us miserable.

—Sophie Arnould (1744-1808), French singer and actress

Jim awakened when he heard the yells, immediately realizing the voice was coming from outside. He had not been sleeping soundly; that was impossible under current conditions. Seemed to be just one voice yelling, and he was all but certain that voice was calling for "Dieterman." Within moments others inside the darkened house were stirring too.

The man who had kicked Jim in the side was the first to emerge into the front room, cursing aloud and carrying his pistol. The three others followed, one with a lamp. Jim was only half surprised that Doc was not there yet. Doc had, as usual, been up late, working on his craft.

The first man, whom Jim knew was called Cricky, went to the door and opened it a crack. "Hey! Shut up out there! What do you want?"

With the door open, Jim heard the response more clearly. "I want Dieterman to pay me the money he owes me! You tell him to come on out here or I'm coming in!" Realization washed over Jim West like cold water. He knew that voice, disguised as it was.

"No Dieterman here, you old fool! Move on!"

"No way, no way!" The voice came closer. "I want my money! That cheapskate has hidden from me long enough!"

The door pushed open suddenly, causing Cricky to stumble back, as a man entered. He was an old man with a shambling gate, long yellowed gray hair and an equally gray and shaggy beard, with matching brows that overshadowed his eyes. He wore a battered hat with a floppy brim that further shadowed his face, and a long, much mended coat over faded shirt and trousers.

"Where's Dieterman!" he demanded in a gravelly voice. "Where you hidin' im?"

"Ain't no Dieterman here, you old fool!" Cricky shot back angrily. "He's been gone for years. Get the hell out of here!"

"I ain't leavin' without my money! Say!" The old fellow peered around the dim room, his gaze lighting on the man bound to the chair. "What's this? Air you boys badge-toters? This here a dangerous criminal?"

"You might say that," Cricky responded. "Now get going! What the hell do you think you're doing wakin' folks up in the middle of the night?"

Jim West waited tensely, feeling his helplessness even more than previously. He had seen this old fellow before, in Virginia, when he and Artemus needed to get information about some Reb troop movements. The half-crazed old man had seemingly blundered into an encampment, raising a ruckus, while Jim used the distraction to enter a tent and copy some maps and orders.

He was now tense and he was angry. What was Artie doing here? Surely he knew his duty, just as he had during wartime. He should be contacting the colonel to arrange for troops to surround this place, as well as arrest Manwaring!

"Wellll…." The old man drawled then, "my boys gonna be mite interested when I tell them about this. Excitin' stuff, eh?"

"What boys?" Cricky asked, suspicious, as Doc Keyno wandered in, hair mussed even more than usual from sleep and attired in a well-worn and faded flannel robe over his nightshirt.

"Why my four sons and some of their cousins. Eight of 'em altogether. They're waiting for me a mile or so away. Soon's I collect the money Dieterman owes me, we're goin' to Californy. Still some gold out there, y'know."

Cricky glanced back at the other men, and Jim could read his thoughts. A moment ago he would have had no problem killing the old coot. Now, however, should the old man not return to his family, they would miss him and ride in, potentially causing big trouble. Manwaring wanted this place to remain unknown.

Then, unexpectedly, Keyno stepped forward. "Frank, hold that lamp over here."

Artie held his ground and hid his dismay. He had been pleased that Keyno had not initially appeared, remembering how the fellow had scrutinized him previously. "Wacher problem, mister?" he croaked. "Say, you look some like old Dieterman. You kin? Maybe you want to pay up his IOUs, huh?"

Keyno's smile was almost grim. "I think you need to take a closer look at the 'old fellow,' Cricky. He's not what he seems."

"Huh?" For a moment Cricky just stared, then he reached over and grabbed the hat off Artie's head before Artie had a chance to react. Unfortunately, the movement dislodged the wig slightly and even in the dim light, Cricky noticed. He seized the fake hair and pulled it off. "What the hell! Who are you?" He pointed his pistol at Artie's chest.

"I think you have just uncovered Major Hannon," Keyno said, with surprising sadness. Artie thought he truly regretted what he had just done.

"Hannon!" another man exploded. "What the devil are you talking about? Manwaring's friend?"

Now Keyno was the one who pulled the shaggy beard off, revealing the neat dark beard of Major Palmer Hannon. Even with the makeup Artie had applied to age his skin, now that the gray hair had been removed, his identity was plain.

"I don't get it," Cricky muttered.

Keyno sighed loudly. "I am afraid this gentleman came here with the intent of rescuing Mr. West. A colleague in government employ, I'd wager."

"I don't get it," Cricky said again, louder. "He's Manwaring's friend!"

"Sadly, I do not believe so," Keyno glanced back at Jim as he spoke. "I am not clear on exactly what is happening myself, but I do believe someone had better go to the ranch and notify Mr. Manwaring immediately."

Another chair was brought into the room and Artemus was bound to it as Cricky himself left to saddle a horse and carry the alarm to Manwaring. The other two men then headed for the kitchen of the house, grumbling about lost sleep and the need for coffee. Keyno remained, looking mournfully at the two prisoners.

"I suspect the two of you have much to say to each other. Would you like to introduce me to your compatriot, Mr. West?"

"Delighted," Jim spoke easily. "My wartime colleague Mr. Artemus Gordon who is helping us in this venture."

"Artemus Gordon! Of course! I could not place you as Major Hannon, sir, but I had the distinct feeling I had seen you before. Not that I met you personally. But I saw you on stage in Kansas City in a magnificent production of King Lear. You were superb!"

Artie dipped his head slightly. "Thank you. Obviously I was better in that role than I was here."

"Oh, no, don't think that way. After all, you convinced Mr. Manwaring quite thoroughly. And if I had not been here, likely you would have won over these men. What was your plan, if I might ask?"

"Why to rescue Jim, of course."

"But how? You are outnumbered."

Artie smiled slightly and winked. "Trade secrets."

Keyno sighed, shaking his head. "I am very sorry. I came to admire the young Mr. West on our previous occasion. I shall regret seeing his promising career cut short. Yours too, Mr. Gordon. Your presence behind the footlights will be greatly missed. But I had best go don some attire before Mr. Manwaring arrives."

"Artie…" Jim began as soon as Keyno exited and they heard his footsteps down the hallway.

Artemus cut in. "Are you all right, Jim?"

"I'm stiff and sore from being tied up here nearly three days, but otherwise okay. Artie, what were you trying to do? You needed to alert…" They were both speaking in quiet voices.

"Don't worry about that. We need to get out of here."

"Well, good luck on that! These ropes are tight. I've already found that out."

Artie cocked his head. "Do you know why you are still alive?"

"Because Manwaring didn't want another murder to be investigated. He's planning on arranging an 'accident' for me. I have no doubt you'll be part of that now."

"That's what he told me about your fate," Artie concurred. "He's liable to be a tad upset with me as well."

"Artie, you needed to notify Colonel Richmond…"

"Taken care of."

"What?"

"I said that's taken care of. Now we need to get out of here so that Manwaring can't hold us as hostages."

Jim sighed, and winced slightly with the pangs the movements caused in his chest. "I just told you that's not going to be easy."

"When has it ever? Jim, I have some ideas. But we're going to have to take the chance that Manwaring won't want to kill either of us immediately for the same reasons he was holding you. And he may now also consider we could be good hostages."

Jim knew that his own physical condition was affecting his power to think, but he did not believe he was in that bad of shape. "Artie, I don't get it." He did not like to be confused.

"I know, and I'm not going to explain just yet. Our friends are coming back."

And they did, carrying their cups of coffee, to stare at the man they had seen earlier as Major Palmer Hannon, then as the old geezer, and now a completely different man, although he still bore Hannon's beard.

The younger of the pair who entered, a blond man with knife scars on his cheek, shook his head. "You must be crazy, man, walking in here like that."

Artie smiled. "It was worth a try."

The other man was Buck, older, with traces of gray in his dark brown hair asked, "Is it true you're a stage actor?"

"Very true. Primarily Shakespearean. Would you like to hear a soliloquy? Hamlet perhaps?"

"A what?" the younger man exclaimed.

But the older nodded. "I would. I saw Junius Booth as Julius Caesar once when I was a lad in Boston. But I don't think we'd better do it now. Cricky is going to be back any time with Mr. Manwaring and I have a feeling he wouldn't be too happy if he knew that was going on. Maybe later."

Artie shrugged. "If I'm still alive."

The blond fellow giggled. "Now that might be a problem, won't it, Buck?"

"I think you'll have a few hours yet, if the boss holds his temper," Buck stated. "I saw how he was strutting in front of you earlier. He is not going to be happy that you put one over on him."

"I imagine you are right. Unless, of course, he is an aficionado of the stage and appreciates my performance."

"Don't count on it, especially since I reckon that like West, you're a Yankee. Union man?"

"Michigan," Artie smiled.

"Well, as I said, I'm from Massachusetts, and I fought for the Union too. But sometimes a man has to earn a living however he can, right?"

"Absolutely. Of course, at times that 'however' might get him in trouble."

Buck gazed at Artie a long moment, then shook his head, as if half amused, half admiring. "Frank, let's go take care of the stock. Sun is coming up any minute. Might as well get it out of the way."

Frank grumbled but followed his older companion out the door. Jim immediately looked at his fellow captive. "Artie, are you sure Richmond got the word?"

"I'm sure the message was sent. If all goes well, the troops from Fort Laramie will be here by late this afternoon. We just have to stay alive until then."

"Well, good luck on that!"

Artie pulled at the ropes binding his wrists behind the back of the chair. "You're right, nice sturdy ropes. This will be a good test."

"Of what?"

Artemus was about to reply, when the sound of fast approaching horses was heard. He hated to leave Jim in the dark, and knew his friend was confused and worried. _But there's no time to explain now. Just have to hope that things work out as planned and I have a chance to put my devices to the test!_

Marston Manwaring was the first to burst through the door. He strode over to Artie's chair and drove a fist into the bound man's jaw. The chair teetered back and fell, just as Doc Keyno entered from the other door. Keyno hurried forward, lifting the chair.

"Mr. Manwaring! That wasn't fair!"

"Fair! This bastard deceived me!" Manwaring's complexion was livid with rage as he glared at Artie, seeming about ready to batter him further.

"Thank you for the compliment," Artie spoke softly. The fist had hurt, but had not cut his mouth. His lower jaw was throbbing but the buzz the blow caused in his brain cleared quickly.

"Compliment!" Manwaring stared, baffled and momentarily stunned into inaction. Hi Doolin and Cricky had followed him in and were now watching with varying degrees of alarm and curiosity. Doolin appeared almost as angry as Manwaring, but he knew better than to interfere at this moment.

"I worked very hard in my portrayal, and obviously I succeeded."

Jim watched the exchange, both worried and amused. He had seen it before. Artemus's glib tongue had bewildered many an opponent in the past. Manwaring obviously thought his prisoner should be abject and frightened. Jim had been concerned that Manwaring might come in with gun in hand to kill the man who had deceived him so thoroughly. Now the southerner took a deep breath.

"All right. Obviously, West is a friend of yours—a colleague."

"Obviously."

Again Artemus Gordon's calm demeanor seemed to perplex Manwaring. "Well, you can die with him, then. Another rainstorm is building, and could put down rain as heavy as the last one. We sometimes have landslides in such storms, with whole hillsides collapsing. It will be tragic, but you two strangers in this area will be caught in one of those landslides, probably tonight."

"I don't suppose you'll be merciful enough to kill us first."

"You're damn right! I'll take great pleasure in realizing you are suffocating slowly in that mud—and perhaps ruing your role in this!"

Doolin spoke for the first time. "I don't think we should wait for the rain to hit."

Manwaring spun on him. "I'm in charge here! Ambushing that first federal man was a big mistake. Your rashness caused the government to send more investigators. If they die in an accident, the Federals are likely to give it up."

"Wishful thinking," Jim said softly. "The United States government is aware of your activities, Manwaring. That's why Galvin was here in the first place, why Mr. Gordon and I were sent. More men will come."

"And by then," Manwaring sneered, "I'll have all of this out of here, in a new location." He shot a barbed glance toward Doolin. "Which I should have done previously, except for bad advice."

"Mr. Manwaring," Doc Keyno stepped forward, "perhaps I should leave right away…"

"No! You finish your work, and then you'll leave. You said the plates were nearly complete."

"Yes, they are but…"

"Then finish them!" Marston Manwaring was in no mood for whiners, and Keyno saw this. Head hanging, he stepped back. Manwaring looked at the several men in the room now. "Tonight, if the rain hits as expected, we'll take these two out to the hills above Wild Horse Creek. With a little help, that hill will collapse. In the meanwhile, keep a close eye on them!"

With one last glare toward Artemus, Manwaring stalked out the door, followed by Doolin. Almost immediately loud voices were heard from outside, even with the door to the house shut. Jim glanced at Artie. Manwaring and Doolin were quarreling. They could only hope dissent worked in their favor. But he was still both angry and concerned about Artemus's actions. Even though Artie said everything was under control as far as notifying Richmond was concerned... _He should not have come here!_

Yet he knew he should have expected it. During the war each risked his own life numerous times to help his partner. The assignment was always placed first, but neither would simply go off without at least making an attempt to rescue the other. Thankfully, those attempts were successful, but some were closer to failure than others. More often than not, Artemus did something just like tonight to catch the Rebs off guard and unsuspecting.

The other men in the room, including Keyno, went to the windows to peer out at the quarreling men. Artie looked at Jim and spoke softly. "How the devil did Keyno know me?"

"He's accustomed to detail, Artie. He notices such things, like your eyes or the shape of your nose. Maybe even your voice."

Artie grimaced. "Good thing we didn't run into many like him in the South!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Be bolde, be bolde, and everywhere be bolde.

—Edmond Spenser (1522?-1599), English poet

At first the guards decided they would not bother to take Jim for his "morning constitutional" to the outhouse, seeing as he was not going to live out the day. Then they thought better of it, and two escorted him out through the back door. Artie could see how shaky Jim was after being confined to the chair for such long periods. He suspected that, given Jim's fine physical condition, he would recover quickly if given the opportunity to exercise his limbs.

It was while he and Keyno were the only occupants in the room that the etcher turned from his work and looked across the room. "He's your good friend, isn't he?"

Artie nodded. "We've known each other since early in the war."

"You're both too young to die. But then, that could have been said about thousands of men, couldn't it?"

"Did you fight, Doc?"

The strange little man sighed. "No, I was a coward. I don't like violence. I don't like being a part of this. Mr. Manwaring didn't tell me about murder."

"Then help us."

"I wish I could. But I cannot. Too late now." He turned back to his work.

The first thing Artie noticed as Jim returned was his bleeding lip. The guards were angry too, shoving him into the chair and rebinding him tightly. "Don't matter if his hands fall off now," one growled.

"What happened?" Artie asked as soon as those men exited through the front door.

Jim grimaced. "I tried to take advantage of the moment, that's all." With Artie here, the situation had changed from his previous idea of lulling the guards into complacency.

Artie understood. Jim had attempted to overpower his guards, despite his own condition. "Jim," he said softly then, "I have some ideas. Hang on."

Jim frowned at him, but did not speak. Artemus could handle himself in a fray, but he was not by nature a fighter. During their wartime excursions, Artie would usually use his wits before resorting to physical force. In a sense, he and Doc had that in common, although Artie did not shy from a fray, and Jim had seen him grinning after a wild, victorious bout. Did he expect to talk them out of this situation now? Not likely. Manwaring was furious, and in one sense it was surprising that he had controlled his rage and not had the two government men killed immediately.

_That's probably what he and Doolin were arguing about. In a sense, Doolin was right. _The longer the execution was delayed, the better the chances were they could escape—especially if Artie was correct in saying that the colonel would be bringing the army in.Jim wished he could ask more about that. He could not understand how Artie could have had time and opportunity to notify Richmond.

The morning crawled by. Keyno continued to work diligently, apparently taking to heart Manwaring's demands for completion of this final plate. The four guards wandered in and out, their uneasiness clear. Perhaps the fact that the mastermind of this scheme, Marston Manwaring, had been taken in by a disguised government agent was unnerving them, Artie reflected. Cricky seemed to be the most nervous, his face a constant scowl.

Artie could discern that Jim was worried also. _And he has a right to be. I was supposed to be the "ace in the hole," the secret weapon. Now I've been exposed and as far as Jim is concerned, we are in a bad fix. While that's true, I have a couple of ideas. All I need is an opportunity. _

As time progressed, the distant thunder sounded nearer. The storm was approaching, perhaps more slowly than Manwaring wished, but it would arrive, probably around or a little after sundown, as such storms often did. Jim looked toward the window where he could see that the sun was still shining brightly. _Might be a race between the storm and the army—if the army is actually coming._ He knew that if they were taken out of the house before the military arrived, those men would have no idea where to seek them—and Manwaring might be able to carry out his murderous plan. _We have to escape before then._

The ropes around his wrists were even tighter than previously, and he could feel his fingers growing numb. In an effort to slow that effect, Jim flexed his hands as much as possible. He did not know if an opportunity would arise to attempt another escape, but numb hands would not be helpful if the chance came.

As midday finally arrived, the four guards entered and went down the hall to the kitchen. No food was brought to the prisoners, though one hollered back to Doc to come and eat. Keyno ignored them. He wanted to get his job done. Artie wondered if Keyno feared for his own life. Once the plates were completed, he was through here. Would Manwaring trust him to go off and never reveal what he knew?

The guards did decide, once again, that it was a good idea to escort the prisoners to the outhouse. Artie was taken first, and he was warned that if he tried any shenanigans, the men inside with his friend would punish that friend. When he was tied to his chair again, the same warning was given Jim. Artie waited rather tensely, hoping that Jim behaved himself this time, not for his own sake, but because of what he had in mind. _If only the opportunity arises!_

Artemus could discern that Jim was very on edge. Their situation was dire. Manwaring could return at any time and decide to take his captives to the spot of their execution, preparatory to the storm striking. He might not even wait for the actual storm, presuming that the rain would remove all traces of human activity. _I wish I could tell you, James, what I have in mind. _

For some reason, the guards started a poker game in the kitchen. As their loud talk and raucous laughter drifted down the hall, Keyno threw several black glances that way. After about an hour, he slid off his stool and stalked to the kitchen. Jim heard him reminding the men of Doolin's orders. The quartet complained that sitting in the barn was not comfortable, but they did not argue too long, apparently exiting through the back door to find a new spot for their game.

"How do they expect me to concentrate?" Keyno muttered as he returned to his stool.

A silence settled in and another hour or more drifted by; the rumble of the thunder grew closer. Artie watched Doc Keyno carefully. Keyno was bent over his work, seemingly now unaware of the world around him. As an experiment, Artie used his feet to push his chair slightly. Doc did not look around. Artie scooted his chair again, this time drawing a puzzled glance from Jim; but Doc did not react.

After another minute or so, however, Keyno did move, rising from his chair and flexing his back. "Guess I'll get a little exercise," he said, scarcely glancing toward the prisoners, and headed out the front door.

"Artie, how…" Jim began as soon as the door closed. Doc had never left his post like this before, but that didn't matter. What mattered was to find out what was going on.

"No time now. Turn your chair so we are back to back."

"What?"

"Do it!"

Baffled, Jim did as bade. He knew how tight the knots were on his own ropes; they bit into his already sore wrists. More than a few minutes would be needed to loosen them. But both men scooted their chairs until their backs were to each other, as close as possible.

"Pull off the button on my coat sleeve," Artie urged. "Be careful. It's full of acid."

Astounded, Jim wanted to ask a dozen questions, but remained silent and obeyed again, stretching as far as he could until his fingers touched the rough fabric of the old coat, and grasped the button, which was a round object, about the size of a small nut. He had to concentrate hard, because his fingers did not have complete feeling in them. A quick jerk loosened it from the fabric. "Got it."

"All right, press it against my ropes, and squeeze it. Not too hard. The acid will seep out onto the ropes.'

Still more than a little mystified, Jim complied. "All right," He said after a moment. "I think it's empty. How long…"

"Might take a while. Now pull the button off the other sleeve and put it into my fingers so I can get some acid on your ropes."

Jim completed the task, biting back the questions he wanted to ask. He felt a slight sting on his skin as the acid was squirted onto the ropes around his wrists. They then both tossed the buttons as far as they could toward the wall behind them, and worked their chairs back into their original positions.

"Artie, how in the world…?"

"Just something I've fooled around with in the past. Like the colored smoke I told you about, I thought this might work on stage, but so far I haven't been able to time it exactly. I think it'll take thirty to forty minutes to weaken the ropes so that they can be broken. When you didn't show up at the train, I had a notion you might be in trouble, so I brought the jacket back with me—as well as some other items in case I needed to go into disguise, which turned out to be the case."

"A good idea if not for Doc."

"Yeah."

"What about the colonel? How did you get in touch with him?"

"After I went back to the ranch with Manwaring yesterday, I suddenly realized I needed to send a message to my banker in Denver, made my excuses to Manwaring and headed out, planning to send a telegram from town. I met a man on the road with your horse."

"Jack Mayne."

"Yes. He had found your horse wandering loose and was taking it into the sheriff. He related how he had met you. I took a long chance and identified myself to him whereupon he told me that you had planned to observe this house. Very intelligent fellow is Mr. Mayne. I felt I could trust him to send the telegraph message, and I wrote it out in the code Colonel Richmond passed onto me. I thought that for him to send the message would draw far less suspicion, in case anyone in town acts as a spy for Manwaring.

"And just in case that spy might be reporting back on my activities, I followed Mayne into town, had a drink at the saloon, then sent my own message to Denver. A banker there is liable to be confused, but that's okay. I returned to the ranch, had dinner, commiserated with Manwaring regarding the dastardly federal government and how wonderful it was going to be to overwhelm the country with the bad currency, and went to bed. I sneaked out after the house was quiet and… the rest you know."

Jim West wanted to scold his wartime partner but knew he could not. If the situations had been reversed, he would have done all he could, whether it appeared safe and reasonable or not, to help his friend. They had so many times. Was this one going to be the failure, long after the battles were over? He tugged slightly on the ropes around his wrist but did not feel any give.

Artie saw the movement of his friend's arms and shoulders and leaned back slightly to peer behind Jim's chair. "Don't worry, it's working. I can see the fumes. When they come back inside, remain still. We don't want them to notice."

Even as he spoke, the front door opened and Doc Keyno returned. Again he barely glanced at the pair as he went to his desk to resume his work. As the minutes dragged on Jim found his patience was being tried. He wanted to jerk on the ropes again, yet knew they had to work in concert. The perfect moment would come; he just did not know when that moment would be.

"Jim," Artie whispered, "any idea where guns are kept?"

Jim shook his head then looked toward the door that led into the other rooms. If weapons other than what the guards carried were available, very likely they were in one of those other rooms. Jim presumed his own weapon would be in the house somewhere. Would they have time to search for them?

Artie had been trying to count the minutes that had elapsed after they applied the acid. He had tested the acid on other materials, including ropes of varying thickness and even pieces of leather. He had found that it acted most efficiently on dense material, perhaps because the acid had something to work on, to eat away strand by strand. He thought that more than half an hour had elapsed. He wished Keyno would leave again, but he suspected that was not going to happen. Doc appeared totally absorbed in his work again.

_Strange man,_ Artie reflected. _If I didn't know better, I'd say he deliberately left for those few minutes to give us an opportunity to talk, perhaps plan an escape. He couldn't know I had the acid. He doesn't like being involved in murder, that's for sure. His only interest is in preparing the plates for the counterfeit bills… and perhaps preserving his own life!_

Now perhaps the question was, did they attempt a break now, with just Keyno in the room, and take the chance that he would not try to raise an alarm? The worst problem was that they had no real idea where the other four men were. Hearing no voices seemed to mean they were not near the house. Perhaps they had returned to the barn to resume their poker game, despite its discomforts.

Jim stared toward the windows for a long moment, then turned his gaze toward his fellow prisoner. Artie read the question in them and the only answer he could come up with was, now or never. He nodded. Both men strained at their bonds. Artie's gave first. He quickly reached around to help Jim, suspecting that Jim's weakened condition, plus the soreness around his wrists were hampering him. In a moment both were free.

Neither moved from their chair for several seconds, watching Keyno. He evinced no sign that he had heard their movement, nor the soft thud of the split ropes hitting the wooden floor. After sliding off the rope that had been around his chest, Jim stood up, grabbed the back of the chair for a moment to steady himself then moved quietly toward the door behind them. Artie remained where he was, his eyes on both Keyno and the door, listening for a footstep on the porch out there.

The first room Jim encountered after the printing room was a bedroom. He found a rifle on the floor next to the bed and a quick check revealed it was fully loaded. He then moved to the next room, another bedroom, where he found his own pistol and gun belt. Strapping it around his hips felt good. Feeling he had better not press his luck, he crept back to the front room where Artie was still seated, as was Doc Keyno, apparently never having looked around. He handed the rifle to Artie, who now stood up.

"Doc." Jim spoke quietly.

Keyno looked around and displayed no surprise. "I remember you were an enterprising young man, Mr. West. Go about your business. I won't hamper you. I have my work to occupy me."

The two agents glanced at each other then headed for the door that opened to the back. Jim was finding that with freedom of movement—without guards at his side—his limbs were loosening and he was feeling more normal. Artie opened the door a crack and peeked out. "I don't see anyone."

"How far are the horses?" Jim asked as they started across the open space between the house and the outbuildings.

"They—" Artie halted his words and his steps, throwing out his hand unnecessarily to block his companion. Jim had stopped as well. The thundering sound they were hearing was not coming from the sky but from numerous horses approaching at the opposite site of the house, very near. "Too far!" Artie rapped then. "Come on!" He started off at a run toward the unpainted and slightly sagging barn.

Jim would have protested that the ramshackle building was not going to offer much shelter, but Artie was already several yards ahead of him. So he followed through the door into the dim interior. "Artie, we have to…" He stared. Artemus was on his knees at one of the old stall, his hands throwing some stacked hay aside. "What the devil are you doing?"

Artie got to his feet now, holding his saddlebags. "I stowed these here before I raised the ruckus last night—just in case."

"You have more weapons and ammunition?"

"You might say that." He reached into one side of the bag and came up with a couple of shiny balls, perhaps an inch and a half in diameter.

"Christmas ornaments?" Jim asked, gaping.

Artie grinned. "More like presents for someone."

Hearing noise outside, Jim stepped over to one of the windows on which the shutters were sagging half open. He saw several men, including Marston Manwaring and Hiram Doolin, emerging through the back door. All were carrying weapons in their hands. Jim drew his pistol.

"Wait, Jim," Artie spoke softly, moving alongside him, carrying the saddlebags. "Don't do anything to cause them to disperse. It'll work better if they are all close together."

"What are you talking about?"

"Remember when I told you I had experimented with vapors on stage?"

"Yeah, but that's not going to help us here anymore than it helped your play succeed!"

"It will if there's a little something extra in the vapors. An anesthetic, Jim. It'll knock them out, or at least stun them enough that we might make it to the horses."

Jim shook his head in doubtful astonishment, glancing out the window again. He couldn't catch the words, but pretty obviously Manwaring was giving instructions to his men, with gestures that indicated he was telling them to spread out and search. A quick count revealed at least a dozen men with him, including the ones who had been on guard at the ranch house previously.

"Take these," Artie instructed, placing the two balls in Jim's hand. He then extracted two more from the pouch. "I have a couple more besides these, but I doubt we'll have time to use them. The explosives might come in handy later."

"Explosives!"

"We're going to have to open the door," Artie continued, "so as to have plenty of room to wind up and throw. You take the right side; I'll take the left. Try to aim them to fall right at the feet of those men. And let's do it now, before they spread out any further."

_I have to trust him. I trusted him for more than three years during the war._ Jim grimly followed Artemus to the door, each standing on either side, one of the shiny balls in each hand. They were going to be exposing themselves for a moment. If these "gas balls" did not work…

No time to even think about that. In synchrony, they stepped into the doorway and kicked it open. Instantly Jim hurled the ball he held toward the right side of the men who had just started to move away from the back of the house; he then transferred the second ball to his right hand and threw it as well, trying to aim a little more toward the center of the group. Artemus did the same with the left side. Then both jumped back inside.

Jim had seen the billows of red-toned vapors that exuded from the broken glass balls, and now he was not only hearing the coughing and cursing from those men out there, but the scent of the anesthetic was burning his own nose. Artie noticed it as well. The wind from the approaching storm was carrying the gas toward them!

Artie pulled out a handkerchief and held it over his nose, nodding for Jim to do the same, which he did. "What now?" Jim asked in a muffled voice.

Artemus peeked out around the edge of the door. He saw a number of men sprawled on the ground, others sitting dazedly, and five still on their feet, coughing and rubbing their stinging eyes. One was Manwaring.

"Maybe we need to strike while the iron is hot," Artie replied.

Jim took a quick look, and nodded, pulling his gun. They stepped into the doorway, weapons ready. "Drop your guns!" Jim barked.

The dazed men who had remained on their feet complied. Manwaring was among them, although he stared with hate-filled eyes toward Artie as he let go of his weapon. Jim ordered them to step back toward the house and Artie started forward to pick up the weapons, when both agents were startled by a voice from behind them.

"You two had better just drop your own guns."

Jim spun to see Hiram Doolin coming around the corner of the barn with another man. Doolin carried a shotgun; the other man had a pistol ready. Doolin grinned at their stunned expressions.  
>"I always like to play it safe, and me and Anderson here went around back, figuring to go into the barn from behind if that's where you were hiding. Drop your guns. This scattergun can do some damage."<p>

Artie saw that the men with Manwaring who had released their guns were now picking them up. He glanced at Jim. They really had no choice at this moment. Both let their weapons fall to the ground.

"I told you, Mar," Doolin crowed as he advanced. "You should have killed West right off."

"Never mind," Manwaring growled. "We have them now. We'll follow up on my plans." He glanced up at the lowering sky. "This weather is going to play right into our hands."

"You might as well give up," Artie spoke softly. "Everything we know has been sent to our boss. He and the army will be showing up any time."

"You shut up, damn you!" Manwaring stepped forward, swinging his pistol toward Artie's head. Artie threw his arm up and caught the force of the blow on his forearm, painful but not as damaging. Manwaring was going to try again but Doolin hurried forward, grabbing his arm.

"Stop it, Mar. We don't have time for that."

Manwaring glowered. "I'm going to enjoy watching you die, _Major_."

Artie gazed at him with mild amusement. "I'll try to give you a good show."

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Jim lifted his head and listened. _That's not thunder!_ The man known as Buck heard it too. "Mr. Manwaring, that's horses! Coming this way and coming fast!"

"The army," Jim stated flatly, "coming from Fort Laramie."

The men behind Manwaring who were recovering from the anesthetic looked at each other in alarm. "We'd better get the hell out of here!" Cricky's eyes were wide.

"You stay where you are!" Doolin ordered. "That's probably more boys from the ranch."

Buck shook his head. "Ain't that many back there. Sounds like fifty-sixty horses coming! I'm leaving!" He started toward the corral.

"Stop!" Manwaring yelled, turning his gun toward his employee.

Jim took that moment of distraction to hurtle his body into the group of men, aiming at Manwaring, but taking others down as well as he shoved them back. Artie acted almost in unison, reaching down to pick up his rifle and swinging it toward the man nearest him, which happened to be Hi Doolin. The gun barrel caught Doolin's right hand, causing him to cry out in pain and drop the shotgun, which Artie immediately grabbed by the barrel, using the stock as a club as he plowed into the melee.

Jim was aware of enraged cursing and screaming as he punched and kicked at the men who attempted to seize his twisting, constantly moving body. He recognized one voice as that of Marston Manwaring, but could not take the time to concentrate on the leader of the counterfeiters. He knew that the army would be riding in at any moment, and he wanted all of these men to be arrested. He did not know which of them pulled the trigger that took Tim Galvin's life and it was important that the guilty man be ferreted out to face trial.

"Gordon!"

Artemus swung around at the hoarse, furious yell behind him. Somehow Manwaring had extricated himself from the fracas in which Jim West was the eye of the hurricane, fists and feet flying, downing one man after another. Now Marston Manwaring stood about five feet away, a pistol in his hand, pointing directly at Artemus Gordon.

"The army is here," Artie spoke steadily, seeing the first of the horsemen round the house. "Put your gun down." He still held the rifle, but by the barrel, and knew he would not have time to bringing it into firing position.

"You tricked me, Gordon! I believed in you! I thought you were of the same mind!"

"Not hardly. I spent four years working to defeat men like you, Manwaring. Now put the gun down!"

Dealing with the last two standing men, Jim glanced around and saw the blue-clad soldiers starting to dismount and hurry toward the group of stunned and staggering men behind the house. He also saw Manwaring with the gun pointed at Artie, and realized that the soldiers probably could not see that Manwaring was holding a weapon, blocked by Artie's body.

Knowing he himself was too far away to get to Manwaring before the trigger could be pulled, Jim did the next best thing. He grabbed the arm of the man called Frank who was leaning over dazedly, and swung him hard. Frank stumbled then hurtled into the shoulder of Marston Manwaring. As the two men went to the ground, the gun in Manwaring's hand went off, but the bullet flew wide of Artie. Soldiers quickly moved it to seize both men.

Within a few minutes, the army had matters under control, with the dozen or so of Manwaring's men, including Manwaring himself and Doolin, in handcuffs. Manwaring never stopped glaring at Artemus Gordon, and if Artie got near, spewed curses at him. Artie did not react, quite aware that doing so would have given Manwaring satisfaction. His hatred was understandable. _If someone played such a ruse on me, gained my complete trust, I might just feel the same._ Artie knew that any attempts to explain would be useless. Manwaring would never believe that the hated Yankee experienced any sense of sorrow; that Gordon had initially tried to believe that the southerner was innocent.

At some point, Jim suddenly remembered Keyno, and hurried into the house to search. Of course the odd little man was not there, nor were the plates he had created for the counterfeit bills. A soldier informed him that the troopers had passed a man trudging down the road, carrying a carpetbag, a man with a rather scrunched up face who had waved to them in a friendly manner. They had thought he was just a vagrant, with his ill-fitting clothes and unkempt hair.

It had started to rain by the time Jim and Artie retrieved their horses from where Artemus had secreted them in the nearby hills. They rode in the direction the cavalryman had pointed out, and soon came upon Doc Keyno, with his satchel, walking toward Carvers Landing. He sighed visibly as they approached, clutching the bag to his chest.

"I thought I might catch the next stagecoach," he said mournfully.

"Maybe you could," Artie said, dismounting and holding out his hand. "But not today."

"Where do you think you were going to go?" Jim asked as Doc sadly handed his bag over and Artie opened it to search.

"Oh, I don't know. I really don't like prison, you know."

"Then why are you making counterfeit plates?"

Keyno smiled. "Because I'm good at it. Isn't that why you are a government agent, Mr. West?"

W*W*W*W*W

Where your talents and the needs of the world cross, there lies your vocation.  
>—attributed to Aristotle (384-322 BC), Greek philosopher<p>

Jim West pulled off his jacket and hung it on the bedpost. He sat down on the bed then but did not continue to remove his garments in preparation for the night. The hour was relatively early and he was not particularly tired or sleepy. He glanced around the hotel room. He was lucky, he knew, to have a permanent address here at the Willard, one of Washington's finer establishments. This was where he kept his belongings when he was not out ranging the country in service to the department.

It was, however, a lonely place. He had friends in the Secret Service and elsewhere, but sometimes making the connections was difficult. The other agents were usually out on assignment, or he was. The local friends had their lives. He occasionally received invitations to dinners or other social gatherings and he often attended when his schedule permitted. He liked dancing with the lovely ladies and sometimes spent more time with the ladies he met, taking them to dinner or the theater. He could have gone to a soiree tonight at a senator's home.

However, he had not been in the mood. The last two weeks had been spent testifying at the trial of Marston Manwaring. Part of his job was giving the evidence against the men he had arrested; they needed to be convicted in order to pay for their crimes. Manwaring would pay. He had ordered the murder of Tim Galvin, and would hang for it. Hiram Doolin and another man named Ormsby had carried it out. Jim was unsure why the period of time he spent in the courthouse had been more depressing than usual. He disliked testifying although quite aware of the necessity, but this stint seemed particularly arduous.

Artie had not been there. Once the gang was arrested and jailed, Artemus Gordon had returned to Chicago and his acting troupe to begin rehearsals for their next tour. He had met with a federal attorney in that city to give his deposition for the trial.

_Face it, James._ Jim West rose and went to the window, overlooking the lamp-lit street below. A few carriages were out, and he saw several men down on the corner, talking and laughing. They had probably just emerged from one of the nearby taverns. _Face it. Working with Artie again was great. _He had not really realized how much he missed interacting with his wartime partner until they reunited for this task. _I missed that camaraderie as we worked together, and above all I missed the trust between us as we shared danger as comrades and friends. _Being with Artemus had made him feel secure and right and balanced in the framework of a well-matched team_. I watched his back, but even more so, he watched mine, always somehow able to know when I needed his assistance._

_Artie saved my life—again—with his acid buttons. If he had not had those, we would not have been able to free ourselves. Chances were very good that even if the army had arrived, we would have been shot there in the house._ _The gas bought us time until the army showed up._

Artemus had told him how he had devised both the buttons filled with acid and the gas bombs in his spare time between acting and rehearsing. Quite a bit of the theoretical work was done on trains traveling from one venue to another, and when he had opportunity, he bought the supplies and tested them as best he could. He admitted that he had not tried the gas on humans before, only a couple of rats, "and a poor dog who wandered into the alley where I was dispersing it. He recovered just fine."

Jim had laughed heartily at Artie's stories as they sat in the saloon in Carvers Landing, waiting for word to join Colonel Richmond on the train. He had laughed more on the trip that took Artie to Chicago. He knew he had not given any indication to Artemus that he would like to have his old partner back. That would not have been fair. Artie had his successful career. He had done the country one last favor by participating in the downfall of Marston Manwaring.

The firm knock on the door surprised Jim out of his reverie. The hour was late for a visitor. Might be someone from the hotel, he realized, getting up and going to the door. He had not put his boots out for a polish yet as he normally did at night.

"Hi."

Jim West gaped at the man standing there with a big grin on his face. "Artie? What…?"

"Can I come in?"

"Well, sure, yeah. Come on in." Jim stepped back, still staring. He half wondered if he was not hallucinating this, springing out of his musings. "What are you doing here?"

"Visiting you. My room is down the hall."

Jim shook his head slowly, still uncomprehending. Artie's grin grew wider if that was possible. "Down the hall? You're supposed to be in… in Cleveland, wasn't it?"

"The troupe is in Cleveland. I'm here."

"But why Washington?"

"Because this is where I needed to come to sign up."

"Artemus…"

Artie laughed out loud now. He could see Jim was getting a bit frustrated. "James, I am now a full-fledged member of the Secret Service."

"You are… what?"

"You're a little dense this evening, pal. I resigned from the acting troupe—remaining just long enough to help them secure an actor capable of filling my shoes, not an easy task, I assure you—and came to Washington to meet with William Wood and Colonel Richmond. I… ah… I did not contact you immediately because I was unsure how it was going to turn out."

"Then why did you resign your acting job?"

"Got me, there, huh? Let's just say I had a certain amount of confidence based on a conversation I had with the colonel on the train. In any case, I've been hired."

"You're crazy, Artie! Giving up a nice safe and secure job…"

"Therein lies the problem, James my boy. I love acting. But doing the same thing night after night—well, frankly, working with you in Wyoming Territory reminded me what else was out there. I need some excitement in my life."

"You're crazy," Jim said again, shaking his head. "You were accepted?"

"In a heartbeat, with the colonel's endorsement. It did not hurt that General Grant put in a word as well. The colonel said that he could not guarantee that the two of us would always work together initially, but he would try to see that we received as many assignments as possible. He's quite familiar with the efficiency with which we can operate together."

Jim sat down on the bed then, gazing up at his friend, seeing the twinkling warmth in the brown eyes. "All I can say is you're nuts."

"I think it takes a little insanity to do what we did for three years, James. By the way, the colonel informed me of the results of the trial. What a waste."

Jim was surprised. "What do you mean?"

"I mean here was a man, Marston Manwaring, who recouped his father's losses and built himself a fine empire in Wyoming. He was respected, wealthy… and he threw it away in a mad quest for vengeance, which may or may not have worked in the long run."

"And you liked him."

"I did. I think I could have been a good friend with Manwaring in a normal situation. A waste. Then there's poor Doc Keyno."

"Yeah, I have to agree there. I spoke to the judge about him, but I had to concur when the judge and the federal attorney pointed out that Keyno is probably not redeemable. The mere fact that he grabbed the plates and headed out showed that. He considers those plates his masterpieces—and he would have sold them to someone else. The fact that he aided our escape could not play into it. He's a dangerous man in his own way. Plus he still faces the charges from the previous time I took him in."

Artie was silent a moment, his frown deep and thoughtful. Then he brightened. "I asked the colonel about the train!"

"And?"

"He said it's not likely it would be assigned to any one agent, or pair of agents, at this time. But he would not rule it out for the future—provided said pair of agents prove themselves worthy of it."

Jim West grinned then, getting to his feet and grabbing his jacket. "I think that information deserves a drink or two."

Artie gazed at him askance. "You'd rather have the train than me?"

"Well… I guess there are certain points in your favor. Let's go talk about them. We need to make sure that we get assignments that will require the services of both of us… _and_ the train."

"Now you're talking, partner. Now you're talking! I want to talk to you about some of my other inventions. Have you ever thought about carrying a knife in your boot?"

"I've done that… slipped a knife inside…"

"No, no. Hidden better than that. Do you realize how easy it would have been for us to escape those ropes if you'd had a secret knife inside the sole of your boot?"

Jim blinked. "Inside the sole! What in the world are you talking about?"

"Or how about a hidden gun, a derringer, under your jacket sleeve that you could eject into your hand in a trice?"

"I've heard of sleeve guns…"

"Better than an ordinary sleeve gun, James, if I may say so myself. And I'm thinking about a projectile one could fire from an ordinary pistol, or even a carbine, that would carry a rope to a higher point and embed it, so that one could climb…"

"Artie, these things don't exist!"

"Ah, things are not always what they seem to be. I believe you said that once or twice. We can talk further over a drink or two. Say, are you acquainted with that pretty blonde who works in the bar downstairs?"

Jim paused with his hand on the doorknob. "Artemus, we are going to need to lay some ground rules."

"Such as?"

"All's fair in love and war."

Artemus threw his head back and laughed. "Let's go start the war, pal."

Hand  
>Grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friendship,<br>And great hearts expand  
>And grow one in the sense of this world's life.<br>—_Saul_ (st. 7), Robert Browning (1812-1889), English poet

**THE END… sort of…**


End file.
